Apricity – Chapter Six
The snow began to fall.
The flakes were light—the sort that Draco couldn't feel unless he brushed them with his fingertips to make them dissolve. The sort that melted like tears against his cheeks. All around them, adding to the thick blanket that already caressed the cobblestones. Though it was dark outside, the reflection of the moon against the snow caused the sky to look pinkish-grey. It felt like a different world.
Granger stood before them like a small animal illuminated by the streetlight. She looked like herself yet somehow, she looked like a person who couldn't claim the name Hermione Granger. A person who couldn't be the same Golden Girl that won the war.
The way she wrung her hands, the pigeon-toed way she stood, the way her feathered brows came together on her forehead to map out her anxiety.
It was out of character.
"Is Ron cheating on me?" she asked again, her voice strong and sure in spite of her stance.
Theo and Draco exchanged glances, the former giving Draco a look that told him it didn't matter what he wanted. She already knew and if she didn't, she was hurt anyway. So, Draco threw his hand up in resignation, shaking his head. Theo took a deep breath.
"Yes. Ron is . . . Yes. He is."
A blank look crossed Granger's face and she frowned, casting her gaze downward for a moment. She wrung her hands again, fingers twisting around her wrists and the backs of her palms. The silence felt as thick as the snow.
"With—with who? Do you know?" she asked.
Draco turned his face away. He wasn't going to say anything. It wasn't his business and he hadn't wanted to get involved. Somehow, he'd tricked himself into thinking he wanted to and now—standing here, watching her sway like a confused willow branch as she tried to make sense of everything—he was trapped.
"Does it matter?" Theo said. "All that matters is it's true. And—and if you don't believe us, well . . . Ask anyone."
"Anyone?" She sounded crestfallen.
"Yeah," Theo said, sounding the same. "He's not exactly—"
"Subtle," Draco muttered.
"Yeah." Theo sighed. "Look, if you want me to talk to him, then I will. I've got no problem—" Draco shot him a sharp, curious look but he continued, "—talking to him for you. You don't even have to say another word to him if you don't want to. I can—"
"I think she knows how to handle her business, Theo," Draco said, keeping his gaze trained upon his friend. "It's not as if it's ours, is it?"
A tense charge ramped up between them, like a swirling electrical storm, but Granger didn't seem to notice it.
"When did this happen?" she asked.
"Does it matter?" Draco drawled. "The Weasel's lived up to his namesake. Throw him in the rubbish bin and be done with it. Be glad you never gave him what he wanted."
At this, both Granger and Theo's gazes found him, and he realized he may have said too much.
Granger hung her head.
"Yes, I—I suppose I should just . . . Go back to the dorm and write him an owl," she said in a soft voice. "That way, I don't have to speak to him again."
"Good idea," Theo said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat. "I know he's your friend—er, your best friend—whatever he is . . . but I'm sorry."
Granger nodded in a numb way. A far cry from the witch that had slung curses as dark as night into the faces of Death Eaters expecting jinxes, the Granger that stood before them looked lost. Like she didn't quite know what to do next. Draco watched her for a moment, watched her metaphorically folding in on herself, and he found it disturbing.
But then again she was hurt. It was understandable that she'd want to fall apart.
Why in front of them?
In front of him?
He thought back to Fourth Year, when he'd felt so ill and so discombobulated that he'd thought the only solution was a kiss. Where was that girl? The witch who kissed him back and slapped him, and then never spoke of the incident again? The witch who—on the first day of Eighth Year—entered the Head common room and said, "If you don't get on my bad side, I won't get on yours. The only way this is going to work this year is if you recognize and understand that we're as much enemies as we are friends. We're nothing to each other and as long as you mind your behavior, I won't become something to you. Do you understand?"
This witch was not the witch he'd dreamt of.
This witch was the one he'd heard screaming not only in the nightmare, but also on his Drawing Room floor.
This witch—
Why did he want to go to her?
"Let's return to the castle," he said. "It won't do to stand out here in the cold. Especially if he . . ."
Theo shot him a look and picked up the sentence. "If it gets any colder, you'll freeze your nose off. We'll walk you back."
With one last scathing shared glance, the boys turned and started off through the snow. Draco wondered what was going through Theo's mind, and what his intentions were. Did he fancy Granger? Was this some sort of opportunity for him?
Something akin to discomfort twisted in the pit of his stomach, swirling like the storms that plagued his dreams.
The thought of Theo and Granger together was just as awful as the sight of her with Weasley. Theo was his best mate, but for Granger? He was just . . . Wrong. Granger would run him ragged. He wouldn't be able to keep up. Amongst the Golden Trio, she was the brains, and Draco knew better than anyone that a snake without its head was useless.
Fuck.
Why did it bother him so much?
"I wanted to be good enough."
Draco and Theo's footsteps crunched to a stop. Heart pounding, Draco was the first to turn back around. Granger still stood bathed in the glow of the streetlight, the lantern washing her in an orangish glow. She'd only made it three steps, it seemed, before stopping again. They were now yards apart, but the boys were close enough to hear her.
"Wh-what?" Theo said with a nervous laugh. "What are you talking about, Hermione?"
Draco side-eyed him at the usage of her first name, and then his hands found the pockets of his pea coat. He scrutinized Granger as she fidgeted and acted so unlike herself. He studied her as she crumbled.
"I've always wanted . . . To be good enough for everyone." She frowned, staring at the snow beneath her. "I've never wanted to be the best—I've always just wanted to be enough for you all. But it always seems like no matter what I do—what I learn, who I fight, who I love—it's not going to be enough. Sometimes, I wonder if I'm the one who's out of place in my own story. I wonder if I'm the side character in a narrative that belongs to someone else."
Theo took a step toward her, but Draco's hand shot out to stop him. He did, but not without some resistance.
Granger lifted her gaze from the snow and Draco's stomach did another turn.
Her eyes were full of tears.
"I knew Ron and I weren't getting along. I knew it wasn't possible for us to work after—when—" She let out a dejected sigh and looked down again. "I knew it wasn't a good match. But I've kept trying to make it work when it's like trying to hold fire in my hands. I'm not smart all the time. In fact, sometimes I wonder if I'm smart at all."
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," Draco said, gazing at her through the snowfall. "So maybe you're correct."
"Mate," Theo growled in warning.
Draco started to reply, but a sound escaping Granger's lips wrestled the words into nothingness. A panic rose inside of him.
"I just get tired sometimes," she said, her voice cracking. "And then I want to cry."
"So, cry," Draco said, because it was all he could think to say. He took his hand away from Theo's chest, satisfied that he understood his silent wish, and then he put it back into his pocket. "And we'll stand here with you while you do."
Granger looked up at him, her lower lip and chin quivering. The tears in her eyes glimmered like crystals as they overflowed and slipped down her cheeks one-by-one.
"Yeah," Theo said, adding the words with a smile. "Go ahead, and—and we'll be right here with you."
"Okay."
And then she began to weep.
Together, the three of them stood in the snow underneath the pinkish-grey sky as Granger let her emotions flow free. Granger held the hem of the front of her skirt, twisting the fabric in a stressed manner as she indulged in quiet sobs. Her curls fell forward to curtain the sides of her face, shrouding it from view, and her shoulders shook from more than just the freezing cold temperature.
Theo turned his head away, likely out of respectful Pureblood custom, but Draco found that no matter how much he knew he should . . . He couldn't look away. Something inside of him told him that to look away from her was to leave her lonely. They weren't friends, but after everything he'd put her through—everything that had happened—the least he could do was stand here with her.
Draco had seen her cry before, because of him, but they were eleven. And he knew she was a girl, and that girls tended to cry from time to time. However, Granger presented herself as a tough witch who took zero nonsense. Even during the encounter in the dorm before they'd walked to Hogsmeade, she hadn't seemed the least bit frightened. She'd just seemed angry.
But they weren't eleven anymore.
It was almost terrifying, and somewhat difficult to comprehend. It almost felt unreal—like a surreal lifelike version of one of his dreams. Except in his dreams of her, he wasn't there. He was just watching her life from afar.
But now, he was here.
He was here and for some reason, he felt like he could imagine himself crossing the distance to her. He could see himself wrapping his arms around her. Which was strange, given that the only woman he'd ever embraced simply for the sake of comfort was his mother.
So, he watched her cry because it was all he could do. If Draco was good at something, it was giving what he could.
That was usually enough.
The snow-covered Hogwarts courtyard looked eerie at night.
"Are you going to be all right?" Theo asked from Granger's right side, his voice sounding odd and muted. They'd just finished trudging back up the hill with Draco on her left. It felt like they were emerging from a bubble of time that existed separate from the rest of the world.
"Of course," Granger said. "I think I had a feeling all along that something was going on. I guess I just didn't want to believe it could be true."
Draco was unsurprised. To everyone, it seemed, the members of the Golden Trio were perfection incarnate. They were angels with halos of gold who carried no sins on their backs. But Draco knew of Potter's sins, and he knew of Granger's. It stood to reason Weasley would have some, too.
"I think we all like to believe the best of our friends," Theo said, his gaze meeting Draco's over the top of her head. "But sometimes, we're wrong about them."
Draco tried not to grind his teeth together.
Theo was his best mate, but the fact remained that they'd fought on opposite sides of the war. When the Battle of Hogwarts ensued, Theo had gone against not only his parents, but the Dark Lord, and had revealed himself to be working with the Order all along. While Draco himself wished he could have done the same, that didn't mean that Theo didn't hold any animosity towards him.
He was beginning to wonder if there was something else going on.
"Apparently," she said in response to Theo's words. "I knew I was wrong, though. I knew it from the beginning. I just ignored it."
Draco knew what that was like—ignoring the worst so he could hope for the best. Pretending the ones he loved were the right ones to follow. Pretending his father was a good man, and someone to look up to. The only difference between Granger and himself was that Draco had given up on his father.
"So, what are you gonna do?" Theo asked.
Granger looked pensive for a moment, her hands in her pockets, too. "I'm not going to give him a second chance, if that's what you mean. I'm going to end things between us."
"It's for the best," Theo said, grimacing. "And like I said—I can talk to him for you."
Draco looked at Theo again, this time with suspicion. He wanted to tell him to come off it, but he kept his mouth sewn shut. If Theo wanted to play this sort of game, then he would.
"There's no reason to talk to him," Granger said, pulling Draco's attention. Her tone had drifted back to swot territory—clipped and almost haughty. "I will write to him. And given that he's who he is, he'll approach me himself. I can handle that. In any case, it's not your responsibility to speak to him. He's my—he was my wizard."
Draco's eyebrows shot up.
"Okay," Theo said, "but if you need me—let me know."
At this, Draco wanted to sneer. He didn't like to Occlude unless it was necessary, and right now, it felt necessary. He gathered his wits and built walls, until the indifference painted his face blank.
Theo was getting on his nerves.
"Thank you, Theo." Granger turned to him and held her arms out, giving Theo a surprising embrace. The top of her head tucked beneath his chin, she closed her eyes and exhaled in a way that showed she wasn't as all right as she was trying to sound. "You're a good friend."
Draco's fingers flexed in his pockets.
"Of course, Hermione." Theo hugged her back, a smile tugging up the corners of his lips. "And Weasley's a prat. He's got to be a complete idjit to let a witch like you go."
"Oh," Granger said, sounding a bit embarrassed as she stepped out of the circle of Theo's arms. "Well, he's not a complete idjit. I don't know if I could let the years we've spent together as friends fade, but it's clear that we aren't meant to be in a relationship. I wasn't what he wanted, and that's . . . Okay."
Draco stared at her in incredulity. So clinical, even when she was insecure. And insecurity didn't seem like the sort of dress she liked to don. It was so out of place on her person that he almost didn't recognize her.
Not that he knew her well enough to know if there was anything to recognize.
And how the fuck could anyone not want her? She's . . .
What?
She was . . . What?
He averted his eyes, feeling a bit dizzy.
"I hope you'll rethink that," Theo said, as if reading his mind. "He doesn't deserve you as a friend, let alone his witch."
"I don't think I will." She offered him a small smile. "But I can see why you think I should."
They left the courtyard and walked into the castle. Saying their good nights, Draco and Granger headed to the left and Theo to the right.
"Do me a favor, Hermione?"
Draco and Granger both stopped. Draco glanced back at his friend, but Granger turned completely around.
"Yes, Theo?"
"Promise me you won't go digging for information," he said, his expression concerned and pleading. "Just—promise me you'll move on. It's not—it's just not a good idea."
Granger gave him a short nod and then set off for the common room again.
The boys looked at each another one final time. Draco found that he wasn't quite sure what his friend was thinking. His expression was unreadable. However, after the small argument they'd had, he didn't want to be able to read it.
He was tired of hearing what Theo really thought about him.
"Night, mate," Theo said.
"Yeah," Draco murmured, and then he followed after Granger.
The Head common room felt darker than it probably should.
The Christmas lights weren't on, so the only source of light came from the window by the fireplace. The snowfall outside had increased to a gentle flurry, and the sky was now more grey than pink. The glass panes overlooked the Quidditch pitch, which appeared somewhat desolate with the snow covering the grass and the arches of the hoops.
Inside the common room, it was quiet as Granger took her coat off and hung it on the rack. She stood on tip-toe to reach the knob, and as she relaxed flat on her feet again, she sighed. Draco hung his coat up beside hers, inhaling the aroma of her perfume mixed with the scent of the outside, and their eyes met for a moment in the darkness.
"I know you said not to," she said softly, "but I'm going to thank you."
Draco shrugged one shoulder.
"I don't like to . . . Show that side of myself," she said, hugging her arms around herself. "Especially because I'm supposed to be the strong one."
"Supposed to be?" Draco lifted one eyebrow as he looked down at her. "No one's supposed to be anything other than themselves. I played that game for too long. All it got me was a trial, an incarcerated father, and a dead mother. Don't get caught in that trap."
He walked past her, knowing that the only thing keeping the grief at bay from his own harsh words was his Occlusion. A quick glance into the sitting room showed him that it was clean, but he'd left his book on the couch that evening. He went to grab it, knowing that the only way he was going to get his mind off of his mother now was to read himself to sleep.
A clink behind him caught him off guard, stopping him before he could reach the couch.
Granger was at the small table beside the kitchenette, lifting two small plates and a bowl off of it. For some reason, she looked frailer than usual with the coat off—like crying had taken all of the air out of her and shrunk her down. Like she was someone who needed to be carried.
He didn't like it.
"Oh, I didn't see those earlier," he said of the dishes.
"I'll clean them," she said, the words tumbling out in a quick rush. "I'm sorry. I left them here earlier."
Draco watched her carry them to the sink and turn the water on. He wasn't sure which was more surprising: her washing her dishes by hand, or the fact that she hadn't told him to sod off and deal with it.
He entered the kitchenette, rolling the sleeves of his Oxford up as he went. It was difficult to see, but he made a guess and guessed right. He reached for the dish in her hand, the warm water spilling over his fingers as he did so. Typically, he used charms to set the dishes to washing, but right now, he didn't mind the thought of washing them by hand.
Anything, as long as she didn't do it.
"What are you—"
He cut her off. "Don't worry about it this time."
Her mouth gaped open. "But you hate—"
"I said," he held her gaze, tilting his chin down, "don't worry about it."
He washed the plate with the sponge and liquid soap, ignoring the slimy feeling and grime that he was sure would stain his fingernails. Perhaps he was being dramatic, but yes—he did hate washing dishes. Which was why he hated that she left them all over the common room. But if there was one thing he'd learned from watching his mother and father's rows, it was that when a witch was upset, she just needed to go lie down.
"You don't have to do that," Granger said.
"To do what?" He set the plate on the dish rack, which Granger had brought with her from a weekend trip to Muggle London in September after he'd blown up on her for the first time about her messiness. His hands reached for the second plate.
She wrapped her hand over his fully to intercept him, fingers and thumb hooking around the sides of his palm beside the faucet. The moment she did, their wet skin touching, he felt his stomach lurch. Granger frowned, looking at their hands.
Draco didn't know what it was, but it felt like a storm had whipped up from the depths of his psyche to pummel him from all sides. It was different than anything he'd felt before now—different than the dreams, the weakness, the grey. It was too much.
His gaze snapped to hers.
"Drop my fucking hand."
She held tighter and glared up at him. He could see her eyes piercing through the dark.
"You don't have to tip-toe around me and treat me like glass just because I cried in front of you. It wasn't an invitation. It was a—"
"A gift?" He clenched his teeth, gripping the plate with his other hand so tight that it hurt his knuckles. His stomach was spinning and swirling, urging him to do something, anything to relieve the ache inside of his heart. He didn't know what it was or why it was happening.
Why wasn't he pulling his own hand away?
"A gift." She scoffed. "There's no part of me that's a reward, especially not my tears."
"Then what were you thanking Theo for? His presence?"
"Yes. And yours. I know kindness is a foreign concept to you, Malfoy, but when you do something kind, people thank you for it."
"Ah, yes. I'd almost forgotten about your superiority complex. I thought it was because you were a Gryffindor, but now I know it's just you."
He saw her gaze fall to his bare forearm, where he knew his Mark lay hidden amongst a sea of other tattoos like a clover in the grass.
"And I'd almost forgotten who you really are. Tell me . . . If he called, would you still come?"
Her words lanced through him, right to his core.
"There she is," he snarled, turning his hand in her own and wrapping his own fingers around it. She let out a cry as he yanked on it, bringing her up against his side. The side of her head brushed against his chest—she was that short. "The hissing, spitting kneazle I know so well."
The storm ebbed a fraction.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she snapped. "I can't cry because it doesn't fit the narrative? It doesn't remind you of the cold ice witch you hate so much? Afraid it'll make you feel something like compassion for me?"
"You can cry. Just don't thank me for standing and watching you do it. I don't need the charity of your gratitude for doing what the fuck I want."
She laced her fingers with his own. As much as he knew it was because she was challenging him, arguing and bickering because she was offended and angry—he liked it. He liked the feeling of her hand in his own and he wanted to know what it felt like to hold it all the time.
"Why? Do you like it, or something?" she said, tone snide. "Do you like watching me cry like I did when we were kids?"
He narrowed his eyes at her and before he could stop himself, he had surprised her by ripping his hand out of her own, covering the back of it, and twining their fingers with his on top. He slammed her palm on the front edge of the counter.
"I don't like watching you cry, Granger. I like watching you falling apart. And I like watching you fall apart because it means you're just like the rest of us. You're not perfect. Just because Weasley couldn't accept your imperfection doesn't mean no one else will. It doesn't matter if you weren't good enough for him. There's other people who are fine with you just the way you are. Stop trying to fucking hold it together and be perfect all the time. You certainly don't need to do it for me."
Without looking at him or responding with words, she burst out into tears. Sobbing, right there at the kitchen sink with the water running and his hand pinning hers. He felt her body leaning against his side, trembling. He didn't know what he she do about that, as he'd never experienced it before, but he knew that he didn't mind it.
It didn't feel uncomfortable.
It didn't feel uncomfortable, and there was something familiar in the scent that hovered around her hair. He could smell the floral fragrance of her shampoo just as well as he could smell the Winter in the melted snowflakes in her damp curls. The weight of her pressing into him felt as welcoming as he imagined it would feel to embrace his mother again.
He wished he could do that again.
"See?" he murmured above her head as he set the still-dirty second plate down in the sink. His left arm lifted and, with some hesitation, slipped around her waist. His fingers curled around her hip, feeling its sharpness through her dress, and it felt right. He didn't know why. It just did. "Cry. Just don't lose yourself in the process."
"I'm sorry," she said between gasps. "I'm so sorry."
"Hush," he said. "Do as I say, and hush."
Her sob paused, the sound suspended in the air as she took a gasping breath. Then, the silence burst and she fell into her emotions again. Sagging against him, Draco wrapped his arm more tightly around her, holding her upright. The feeling of her against him was nothing compared to the way the sobs were wrenching their way out of her gut.
It reminded him of the day he'd lost Narcissa.
Draco clenched his teeth and turned his face up to the ceiling for a second. He fought his own emotions, feeling overwhelmed and despaired.
Occlusion was very necessary.
Granger cried until the water ran cold, and then she jumped away from him.
"I'm sorry," she said, frantic as she scrubbed at her face. "I shouldn't be so familiar with you. Thank goodness it's dark."
He could still see her face, tracked with moisture, but he didn't tell her that. He simply returned to washing the plate.
She went on, "Thank you for being there for me, and you're right. I won't let it consume me, and I'll handle my business better. You and Theo are both good friends."
Draco looked at her in surprise, a lock of his hair falling forward that he couldn't touch due to his wet hands. Of all the things he was to her, he didn't think she considered him a friend. All they ever did was fight.
Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy, friends? He didn't know how he felt about that.
"Good night, Malfoy," she said, and then she left the kitchenette.
Draco finished the two dishes and then used his wand to wash and dry his hands, knowing that he could have just used the charm to wash them anyway. Then, as he was heading towards the hallway, he remembered the cauldron cake that Theo had given him. It was still in his coat pocket. He jogged back over to it, calling her surname as he did so.
Her bedroom door opened as he was entering the hallway again. Her eyes were puffy from her earlier crying and the tip of her nose was dark pink. She still had her dress on, but she'd removed her nylons and her legs were bare. She'd piled her curls on top of her head into two separate buns, but a couple of stray ones framed her face. Her face, with bronze skin that looked as soft as gardenia petals, and lips that were pouty and full.
Salazar's wand, he thought, nearly losing his train of thought. She looks—
"What did you need?" she asked, honey-brown eyes wide.
—cute as fuck.
"Tell me, did the Weaselbee ever buy you gifts?" he asked, trying to wave away his opinion as to her attractiveness.
She opened her mouth, averted her eyes in thought, and then frowned.
Draco held the sweet out to her. She held out her hand so he could place it in her palm. He did, and the tips of his fingers brushed against her skin. An answering whip of feeling lashed through his abdomen.
Interesting.
"What's this for?" she asked.
"Witches deserve nice things," he said, echoing Theo in spite of his earlier irritation at his friend. "Remember that when you're writing to the Weaselbee and trying to keep the friendship."
Without further conversation, he took a couple of steps backward. He scrutinized the expression on her face as she stared first at the cauldron cake, then up at him. He turned and went into his bedroom.
A lot had happened today. A lot that didn't make sense. The encounter with Ron, the banter with Theo, and the strange intimacy of standing with Granger while she cried. Twice. It was all strange and weird and bizarre and just . . .
Why did he feel so exhausted?
Later, as his head relaxed into the softness of his pillows and he stared at the wall separating their dorm rooms, he realized what he'd seen there in her eyes as she gazed upon the cake.
Terror.
