REFER TO TRIGGER WARNINGS PAGE FOR THIS CHAPTER.

You can skip the R scene, but do not skip the aftermath when she gets back to the hotel room. You will miss a huge key part of the plot and when it's referenced multiple times later, it will have no impact on you because you skipped it and won't know what is going on.

If you need to skip the R word scene, go to the sentence that says "Granger stumbled out onto the busy street."

If you still choose to skip the entire ending half of the chapter and then leave a review later complaining that you don't know why she's counting in the shower in Chapter 19 and 38, then your review will be deleted.


Apricity – Chapter Eight

The Eiffel Tower.

He stood before a window that overlooked parts of Paris that he recognized. The tower, standing lone and forlorn in the distance. The sun setting on the mountains behind it giving glow to the leaves of the trees at its base. Pale, multicolored buildings stretching as far as he could see.

Why was he in France?

"Hermione, are you really going to wear that?"

Draco turned, shocked to see the Weaselbee standing in the doorway of what looked to be a small, tidy hotel room. The décor was red, the carpet green, and the wallpaper a hideous floral cream. It was by no means a Muggle suite, but it was nicer than what he'd have thought the Weasley family could afford.

Why was he in a Muggle hotel room with the Weaselbee?

Confused, he tried to speak, but found that he couldn't. In fact, he couldn't do much of anything. He tried to move his hands and feet, but nothing happened.

"Ron." The voice was coming from his mouth, but it wasn't his and he wasn't moving his lips. It was a woman's voice. "I've told you multiple times that all of us girls agreed to dress up. It's our last night in the city, and we want to have fun with it."

Weasley walked into the room and plopped down on the end of the bed, his elbows on his thighs and fingers laced in front of his face. He wore a sour expression and his hair looked less shaggy than Draco remembered it. Instead of brushing his shoulders, it curled around the oaf's ears.

Was this the past?

Was this a dream?

What was going on?

Draco felt himself moving towards a full body mirror in the corner of the hotel room. As he did, his reflection came into view.

It was Granger.

Her hair had been pulled back into a sleek bun at the base of her head. The bun itself was as curly as could be, and clearly some sort of hair product had been used to slick the hair down. The edges of her hair along her hairline had been styled into some sort of flat, swooping shapes from her temple to her ears.

She wore light makeup, with lips painted dark red to contrast the terra-cotta of her skintone, and her dress was stunning. Red satin with thin straps, a square neckline, no brassiere, and short as can be. It ruched up the sides and her black tights were sheer. She wore strappy red heels which added a couple of inches to her height, and when she gave herself a small, coy smile, she looked like she knew she looked good.

Draco had never been this speechless inside his own head before.

Why didn't she dress like this every day?!

"You don't think you should wear a jumper over that?" Weasley said, complaining.

"It's the middle of August, Ronald," Granger said, turning to him. Draco felt his arms crossing—her arms. "You can't expect me to wear a jumper when it's eighty degrees every day."

"Okay," Weaselbee said, but the look on his face showed that it wasn't okay. "But don't come crying to me when someone says you look like a slag."

Draco would have risen his eyebrows if he could. He'd been astonished to hear Weasley talking to her the way he had in the Head common room, but to hear it again was unsettling. The Golden Trio presented themselves as the perfect friends. But it seemed as though things weren't so.

"Ron!" Granger put her hands on her hips. "Don't be cruel and say things like that! I'm not a slag just because I'm wearing a dress. It's Muggle fashion—Parisian fashion, to be exact. I bought it when Fleur, Ginny, and I went to the promenade."

"I highly doubt that my sister would buy something like that," Weasley said, jumping to his feet. His face had started to redden with anger. "We may be poor, but we're Pureblood wizards and there's not a single wizard who would be okay with their witch walking around like—like that."

"Harry did like it!" Granger cried, throwing her hands up. "Ginny showed him her dress, and he liked it!"

"Hers was probably not as short as that. There's no bloody way in Hell—"

"Hers was not as short, no, but it's just as revealing. And yes, he was okay with it."

This had to be a dream. It had to be. But if it was a dream, why was it so clear? The grey haze that was normally present was gone. It was truly as though Draco were physically there, trapped inside of Granger's skin as she put one foot in front of the other. He could feel what she felt—he just couldn't hear her thoughts.

"Look," she said, walking across the room to grab a purse off of the dresser. It was black with a long strap, which she crossed over her body and hung off of one shoulder. Then, she snatched her wand up and shoved it into the purse. "It's just a dress, and we're going to be late. We're in Paris, Ronald. This is Muggle fashion. We're going to a Muggle pub. No one will think less of me for wearing this dress. Now, let's go."

Weasley grumbled to himself but did as he was told.

As they exited the room, Draco saw there was a daily calendar on the bedside table, right beside the alarm clock.

August 17th, 1998.

O

They'd been at the pub for hours.

It was dark outside, and not as hot as it had been earlier. It was cool enough to where Draco had a feeling Granger was regretting not bringing a jumper. The pub they were in was on a seedy side of the city, but the Muggle bartender was fast, so it was easy for everyone to get sozzled. The Weasley parents had stayed behind at the hotel, but all of the younger ones had come to the pub.

Over the hours, Draco had gleaned as much information as he could.

It was indeed August. This was the Weasley Family Vacation, for lack of a better word, and they were in Paris, France. Their fallen brother, Fred Weasley, had always dreamed of going to Paris on vacation, but the war had gotten in the way of his plans. So, the family had decided to take his ashes there and spread them.

They'd been there for two weeks. They'd spent the time sightseeing, seeing everything from Disneyland to the Louvre, and they'd had as much fun as they could possibly have. Photographs had been taken, laughter had been shared, and the only time any of them shed tears was the day they surreptitiously spread Fred's ashes in the Seine. Apparently, it wasn't legal for Muggles, and since Granger didn't want to have to obliviate the Muggle authorities, some sneaking had to be done.

The bill for the trip was footed by all of them, a combination of their reward money for serving in the Battle of Hogwarts. It was a proper send-off, they felt, after years of being in school together and fighting in the war.

Eighth Year loomed on the horizon.

George was going to continue to run the shop. Ron was going to return to school with Granger, finished up his N.E.W.T.S, and follow after Potter. Potter, who had been offered early acceptance to the Auror training program in November, was going to stay on at The Burrow until it came time to go to Norway for the training. Ginny was skipping her Seventh Year and going on to play professional Quidditch, which didn't surprise Draco one bit—she'd always been an ace Seeker. Bill Weasley and his wife Fleur were staying at a cottage called Shell Cottage, with plans to try for a baby.

Everyone knew where they were going and what they were going to do with their lives. They had visions for their futures.

Everyone except Granger.

She'd been fielding questions left and right for hours, seeming more preoccupied with the fact that her wizard was eyeing a Muggle girl nearby who wore an even shorter dress than she did. Even though Draco couldn't hear her thoughts, he could feel her heart splintering in her chest like charred wood. He could feel her confusion and her stress, and he could feel that she was sad.

Why was it attractive to the Weaselbee when other girls dressed that way, but not when she did it?

Draco thought the oaf was as blind as fuck, but he couldn't exactly tell Granger that. First of all, his mouth wouldn't work. Second, he wasn't going to compliment Granger. The closest he'd come was confirming that he liked her hair buns in Divination class.

But this was a dream. Undoubtedly. And in dreams, there were no repercussions. There were supposed to be no repercussions. If he had the ability to use his words or thoughts to talk to her, he would have told her something much different than what the Weasel had.

Because he wasn't blind.

She was gorgeous, and he had a feeling that the Weaselbee knew that. He had a feeling that he knew it, and Weasley was so insecure about it that all he could do was look elsewhere. Other girls, other witches, other shiny things. Anything to take his mind off of that fact that he wasn't good enough for someone like Granger. Anything to show himself that he was thousands of leagues below her on the scale. By using behaviors that made him into as bad of a person as he felt inside, he was making himself feel better, but hurting Granger irreparably in the process.

No wonder she'd cried so much.

It wasn't as if Draco was good enough for her, either. The difference was he'd rather internalize his insecurities than externalize them. If he was with Granger, the last thing Draco would do is hurt her. He'd rather hurt himself.

"What about writing to Kingsley?" Potter said from Granger's right.

Draco felt Granger turning her head. Her hand tightened around the one cup of water that she'd had all night. She hadn't ordered any drinks or food, and her stomach had been twisted into a tight coil ever since she'd caught sight of the Weaselbee ogling the Muggle girl.

"That's an option," she said, her voice covering up the emptiness he could feel inside of her. "I had thought about it. But I can't really think about it until I start Eighth Year."

"Are you sure you want to take the risk?" Potter replied before taking a swig of his alcoholic beverage. "Remember, McGonagall told us in Fifth Year that that was the year we needed to pick our path. How will you know what classes to take?"

Draco felt her stress levels rising, filling her chest like a heavy storm cloud.

"I know," she said. "I have some ideas. Don't fret."

"What are they?"

She sipped the water. Draco could feel that her mouth remained dry. "I have quite a few of them, and there's too many to name."

"So, just name one of them." It was Ginny, from Potter's right. "Maybe we can help you cross it off the list?"

Draco felt a panic spiking in Granger's body.

"Well—I had actually—you see—" She cleared her throat, and to Draco, it was obvious she didn't have any ideas at all. "The ideas are rough. Rudimentary, but niche. It would take too long for me to explain them. But Harry—are you excited to start Auror training?"

Ginny gave her a suspicious look, but Potter lit up and began talking almost immediately. He took over the conversation at the full table and soon, everyone was asking him questions instead of Granger.

Inside, Draco felt her relief.

Yes. This had to be a dream.

The dreams had never been this vivid, nor this imprisoning. He'd never walked inside of Granger's skin before. He'd never been able to look Weaselbee, Potter, or anyone else in the eye. The dreams were always flashes, temporary bursts of things that he'd been unable to discern. Yet here he was, and he could feel it when Granger had an itch on her nose.

The nightmare that he'd had of Granger's screaming—the nightmare he'd had on the night of August 17th—was the dream he was inside of right now.

"Who wants to hit that dance club down the street one last time?" Ginny said before downing the last of her mixed drink. She gestured to her dress, which was only about an inch longer than Granger's, bright glittering blue, and had short sleeves. "I know I don't want to waste this dress."

"I don't want you to waste it, either," Potter said, and Draco wanted to vomit as he laid a large kiss against the redhead's lips.

"Can you not, and say you did?" Weasley said, balling up a napkin and tossing it at Potter's head. "That's my sister."

Potter began to tear into him, starting a back-and-forth banter session that not even Draco could keep up with. While they did so, Ginny hopped off of her stool and patted Granger on the arm.

"Let's step outside for a second so I can—" She pantomimed smoking and then shot a surreptitious glance towards the door.

Granger nodded, and then handed her purse to Weasley. "Ron, can you watch my bag for me? We're just going to—"

"Yeah," he said, voice curt as he took the black purse from her before resuming his conversation with Potter. Draco felt like he had snatched it, but Granger's emotions showed no indication of his rudeness.

She followed Ginny out the door. Ginny wasn't wearing as high of heels as she was, but the two witches seemed able to keep up with one another all right as they stepped out of a side door and into a small alley.

The alley was lit only by the streetlights at either end of it, and one blue light above their heads. On the road, automobiles trundled back and forth. The sidewalks were full, young people prancing from pub to pub, or to the many dance clubs that Paris was known for.

Ginny withdrew a cigarette from her purse and lit it, crossing one arm under her chest as she leaned against the brick wall. Her long red hair was pulled up into a ponytail high on top of her head, and the tail fell forward over the front of her shoulder. Her green eyes managed to remain bright, though the lighting cast a sickly-pale pallor over her freckled skin.

"I thought out of all of us, you would have figured out what you wanna do," she said, blowing smoke out of the corner of her glossed lips. "Even Ron knows what he's going to do."

Draco felt Granger's heart plummeting to the pit of her stomach.

"I know," she said with a false laugh. "It's just a bit more difficult to choose than I thought."

"Well, you have a lot of options," Ginny said, taking another drag. She tapped the ashes out onto the ground.

"I suppose so," Granger replied, and her anxiety started to rise inside of her chest. It felt like it was difficult to breathe. "I have a lot to think about, but I think I'll know once school starts."

Ginny nodded, and the two of them stood staring at one another while the redhead smoked for a minute or so. Then, Ginny tilted her head to the side.

"All right, Hermione?"

"Yeah," Granger said. "I'm great. Why do you ask?"

"I dunno." Ginny frowned, a cloud of smoke misting out of her mouth. "You just seem . . . Off. Is everything all right with you and Ron?"

"Honestly, Ginny," Granger said, and Draco felt her plastering a smile onto her face. "You worry too much. Everything's fine with Ron and I, and I'm okay. As for my future, I'll figure out what I want to do when I get back to Hogwarts. I'm not worried about it at all."

Draco knew she was lying. Her heart was racing much too fast for her to be telling the truth. He could feel her cheeks aching from how fake her smile was.

He just didn't understand why she was lying.

Granger always had seemed like the one to have her shite together. If he could have picked anyone in the entirety of Hogwarts who was more prepared for life than anyone ever before, he would have picked her. She had the best grades, the most extracurriculars, and had been there by Potter's side every step of the way towards defeating the Dark Lord. The war would still be waging if it weren't for her.

And she didn't know what she wanted to do after graduation.

By now, Draco knew without a doubt that this was more than just a dream—more than a possible nightmare. The puzzle pieces had started to fall into place and things were making sense. Something had happened in Divination that had taken his mind and melded it with hers. Something had pulled him in and drowned him in it, forcing him to see.

This was a memory.

The girls chatted for a while and then went back inside. Back at the table, everyone was starting to pay their tabs and stand up. Ginny went to Potter's side, who told her they'd decided to go to a club. Granger went to the Weaselbee's, but for some reason, he was glaring down at her.

Everyone filed outside and started walking down the street, but Weasley's hand on Granger's wrist stopped them on the sidewalk. They stood at the mouth of the alley that Ginny had smoked in, half-shrouded in shadows. Granger looked up at her wizard, and Draco thought his expression was one of disgust.

"Who was smoking, Hermione?" Weaselbee asked, tone bitter. "Was it you or Gin?"

"It was Ginny," Granger said, sounding confused. "I've never smoked a day in my life."

Weasley's upper lip curled. "You mean, you stood there while my sister smoked right in front of you? You didn't try to stop her?"

"What on—Ronald, why else would she need to step out of the side door, if not to smoke?"

"I can't believe you." He shook his head, scowling with revulsion. "I can't believe you. That's my sister, and the last thing she should be doing is smoking. She's only sixteen, for fuck's sake!"

"It's her body!" Granger cried, anger intensifying. "I'm the last witch on Earth that's going to tell another girl what to do with her body!"

"Yeah." He gave her a once-over that reeked of disapproval. "When you dress like that, I'm not surprised."

"Why are you acting like this? Why are you trying to hurt me?"

"I'm right peeved with you, Hermione. The fact that you not only convinced my sister to dress like a slag, but to smoke like one, too? We aren't your pet projects."

"Convinced your . . . ?" Her ire expanded and exploded inside of her chest. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. I've never made any of your family members into pet projects, Ronald. And your sister is the one one who picked out her dress. The smoking's got naught to do with me, so I don't know why you would think—"

"Yeah, whatever. I'm starting to get sick of this. You're manipulating me." He turned to walk away.

"Manipulating you?!" Her heels clicked against the sidewalk as she sped up. She grabbed his sleeve and glared up at him. "How could you say something like that? I have never once even attempted to manipulate you! I'm telling you the truth. I didn't pick Ginny's dress, and I had no say in her smoking. I mean, I—I knew she did, but I assumed that you—Ron, slow down—that you knew!"

"You think I'm stupid," he shot back, also glaring. "You've always thought I was stupid, and you've always found ways to hide things from me. You and Harry both. And Ginny! You hide them, and you act like I'm too stupid to know the difference."

He turned and continued on in the direction the family had gone.

As their row continued down the sidewalk a ways, the two of them heedless of other bar- and club-goers sending them perturbed glances, Draco found himself shocked. The fact that Granger had allowed Weasley to talk to her like this in the Head common room hallway had been astonishing enough, but this was way back in August. If Draco ever talked to her this way, she'd slit his throat with her fingernails.

How long had she been allowing the Weaselbee to treat her like Thestral shite?

At the street corner, Granger leapt ahead and moved in front of him. Draco felt her put her hands on her hips and stop him in his tracks.

"No. We're going to talk about this. We're not going to the club."

Weasley's eyes narrowed. "There's nothing to talk about. Just know that I don't trust you."

Granger let out an exasperated sigh. "What's there not to trust? What have I ever done to warrant you not trusting me?!"

Draco would have scoffed if he could. The Weaselbee turned out to boff three other girls and send flirtatious glances to Granger's friend, and he was concerned about trust? How had such a volatile relationship survived? Not even he and Pansy could make it in a relationship—they'd made it all of about one fortnight before they'd downgraded to hook-ups only.

"I am just—look, you don't get it," Weaselbee snapped, trying to go around her. "You're not gonna get it, so just drop it, and let's go to the bloody club."

Granger moved into his way again and again, left and then right, and Weasley exploded.

"Just fucking forget it, Hermione!" he yelled, causing several passersby to scatter. "Forget it! Ever since the war ended, it's been like this with you. You talk to me like I can't understand anything, and like 'I should just know' things. And when I tell you something that brasses me off, you treat me like I'm barmy!"

"Because you called me a slag today for wearing this dress, and then when Ginny wears something similar, you say I drove her to do it! And then, you accuse me of hiding that she's smoking, or—or influencing her to do it!"

"Aren't you? You knew she was smoking, and you haven't said anything to me before. You walked back into the pub and said nothing to me. But you both reeked of it. And Ginny never wore that sort of stuff before, and neither did you! The war ended, and it's like you threw away all of your morals—"

"My morals?!" Granger threw back her head in a mirthless laugh of incredulity. "My morals have nothing to do with my body and the way I dress. There's nothing wrong with showing a bit of skin, and just because you don't know how to control yourself, doesn't mean that women need to cover up."

"Oh, bloody Hell," Weasley spat with audible disgust. "Don't give me that. Don't you give me that Muggle shite. It's got nothing to do with men and women, witches and wizards. It's got nothing to do with it."

"Yes, it certainly does. The only reason why you don't want me in this dress is because you're afraid you can't control yourself when you see me in it. You sexualize my body just by looking at it, and that is not my fault. I shouldn't have to change my clothing and cover myself up when I want to feel sexy, just because you think it's an invitation."

She had a point there.

Weaselbee sneered, his lip curling upward. "As if you'd let me. All you ever want to do is snog. Lavender—"

"Lavender isn't here to defend herself," Granger said, raising her voice as her eyes blazed. "So, let's not speak about her, shall we?"

They glared at one another for a long moment, during which Draco was sure the argument was over. They were in love, best friends, mates, or whatever. So, this would be the moment where the apology was given. If it were Draco, he knew he would have apologized by now, whether out of Pureblood decorum or obligation. Weaselbee was going to—

"Lavender wasn't as frigid as you. So, who's fault is it that I feel like I can't control myself when you dress like that?"

or maybe not.

Sorrow. Draco felt it spreading inside of Granger's body, from her heart to her stomach to the rest of her body. It was the same sort of pain he'd felt all of Sixth Year. The pain he'd felt when he laid awake at night with his gaze on the canopy of his bed, silent tears melting into the hair near his temples, and contemplated begging Dumbledore for help.

When he'd felt like he wasn't good enough.

How the fuck could Granger think she wasn't good enough for Ron Weasley? She was so far out of his league that she was in the sun and he was far, far below the surface of the Earth. Hell, Draco was somewhere a few inches above Weasley. Everyone was. No one was good enough for the Golden Girl.

How could she not see how bright she shone?

But Granger—strong, confident Hermione Granger—didn't let this vulnerability show on her face. Instead, Draco felt her pulling her brows together in a glare. She pointed up at the Weasel.

"You kissed that girl in London last month, and I forgave you. Don't make me regret it."

So Gregoria Thistlewait, Katie Bell, and Pansy Parkinson hadn't been his first mistakes.

They had been his last.

"And there it is again!" Weasley threw one hand up and tangled it in his hair. "You're never gonna let it go, are you? You're never gonna let me forget it. I was sozzled, Hermione!"

"I know, and that's why I forgave you!"

"But you haven't forgotten."

Granger's heart stopped in her chest for a moment, and then drummed a few rapid beats to catch up on itself. She straightened her back and Draco saw concrete as she looked down. When she lifted her gaze again, he felt a measure of resignation inside of her.

"No. I suppose I haven't."

"Clearly. Clearly, and now you're trying to change me to make me into the person you wish I was. You've always done this to me. If it wasn't trying to get me to do my homework, it was trying to get me to follow the rules when you hardly followed them yourself. You want me to be someone else."

"Ron, that's not true!" Granger cried, and Draco felt it. She was right—she truly liked him exactly as he was. "I only want you to be you. You're the person I fell for."

Weasley turned away. "I'm going to find some other pub across the city."

"Why? Can't we just talk—"

"No. Stop smothering me," he snapped. "I'm right brassed off and if I don't leave now, I'm going to break it off with you."

Crack.

He'd Apparated away.

The sadness that sunk into Granger's bones the second she realized he'd left was almost enough to throw Draco into his own despair. It was like she'd been carrying it for years and just needed to set it down for a moment so she could rest. But the sheer magnitude of it overwhelmed her. She was suffocating.

Draco couldn't breathe.

Suddenly, Granger gasped and whispered aloud to herself.

"My wand."

She turned to look over her shoulder, as though Weaselbee hadn't just Apparated away to Merlin-knows where and would be standing there. As if he would come back. To the left and right of her, girls in sparkling dresses and platform heels skirted her. Men in fancy shirts and tight pants jumped around her, saying cheeky things to her in French. Draco knew anyone else would be afraid, but inside of Hermione Granger's heart, he felt only annoyance.

He would be annoyed, too, if his wand had gotten taken from him.

Granger tried to accio it, but nothing happened. With a sigh, she muttered, "I guess I'll just wait until he figures it out and comes back."

She leaned up against the apartment building beside her, the streetlight offering cold solace. She crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

Draco wasn't sure how to feel about any of this. He knew there was nothing he could do to change it—and the fact that he wanted to was a matter he would need to unpack later—but that didn't stop him from wanting to help. He wasn't the sort, yet he still felt the urge. Was it because he was trapped?

Or because he truly cared?

Granger stood there for a solid forty-five minutes before she stood up. Draco felt the defeat in her chest as she looked to the left and the right. He couldn't read her mind, but he could tell she was torn between going to the club where her friends were or doing something else. Perhaps going back to the hotel . . . ?

She began to walk.

And walk.

And walk.

Draco remembered. When they left the hotel, they'd walked down the street, around the corner, five blocks down, left, one block, crossed the street, and then they had taken a right. If only there were some way for him to speak or to tell her. To think the words to her.

A silent prisoner inside her mind and her memory, all he could do was watch.

Granger took all the wrong turns. She went in circles. She stood on curbs and chewed her lip until she made another bad choice. Another bad decision. Soon, she was in an area that he knew for a fact she didn't recognize. It was dark, with hardly any streetlights that weren't covered in dust and grime.

Draco realized with sinking, stonelike dismay that she was lost. She was lost, and this was August 17th, 1998. The night of the one nightmare that he'd ever had about her. The one full of darkness, shadows, and screams. He hadn't known what happened to her, nor if it were real.

He was about to find out.

The street Granger walked onto was empty save for one person leaning against a street sign, lighting a cigarette. He wore plainclothes and a hat, and was grizzled and large in height. As he looked up and locked eyes with Granger, Draco felt the first hint of fear sparking inside of her. She shoved it away, batting it like an insect, and marched across the pavement to get to him.

Brave.

"Excuse me," Granger said in barely-decipherable French. "I'm—uh—cannot find . . . ? Um—home? No—"

"Do you speak English?" the man said, his voice accented. He pushed away from the streetlight and took a step toward her.

Granger's fingers flexed at her side, like she wanted to reach for her wand.

"Yes," she said, sounding relieved. "My French isn't very good. But can you help me find my hotel? I'm staying at one over near the promenade. It's really tall, painted bright blue, and sort of near the—"

"I know where that is," the man said, smiling as he blew smoke out. He looked friendly enough, but then again, Draco wasn't the best judge of character after growing up with Lucius for a father. "Do you know what part of the city this is?"

"N—Yes," Granger said, and Draco felt her heart thumping to the beat of her lie. "But I just need some general directions."

"It's better if I walk you," the man said, nonchalant as he flicked ashes onto the ground and slipped one hand into the pocket of his slacks. His teeth were disarmingly white. "You'll just keep getting lost around here. The streets are old and winding."

The apprehension reared high in Granger's throat as she protested, backing away.

"Really, I'm fine. If you could just tell me which direction to go, I can find my way."

"Are you certain?" The tip of the cigarette glowed in the dark. "Someone as pretty as you shouldn't be alone tonight."

She wasn't alone, Draco wanted to say, feeling his hackles rising. Because she wasn't. He was here, inside of her mind. She didn't know it, but he was.

He wished she knew.

"Please," she said, tone polite, "if you could just tell me where to go, I can find my way just fine."

"Hn." The man grunted, shook more ashes out, and allowed his smile to fade into nothingness. It added years to his face, bringing out the lines around his frowning mouth. "If you go back the way you came, there's an alley that shortcuts all the way there. You're not actually that far—you're just on the backside of it. It's two blocks that way." He pointed with the cigarette to a bread shoppe with dark windows. "Take a left there and walk all the way down. You'll have a perfect view of the Tower, and then you'll recognize the promenade. It's always lit up."

"Thank you," Granger said, turning and hurrying across the street.

The further she got from the man, the more her fear faded, and the better Draco felt.

Granger followed the instructions and sure enough, they found themselves at the mouth of an alley that was so long that the lights of the other side looked small. She squinted, and Draco could see automobiles whizzing past. It would take a good five minutes to get to the other side, but it didn't look like anyone was in the alleyway.

Five minutes to home free.

She set off at a brisk pace, the sound of her heels echoing along the tall buildings to either side of her. She kept her arms hugged around her against the light chill that had settled in. Paris wasn't actually very warm during the last half of August, so Draco suspected Granger had a bit of regret for not bringing the jumper.

Draco felt the same relief within him that he could feel within her. Soon, she'd be back at the hotel and maybe then, she would sleep. He hoped that the nightmare he'd had had been just that. He hoped this was just some fluke with the Divination spell, and that nothing was going to happen.

The end of the alley loomed closer. The car engines were so loud that Draco couldn't hear anything else. The sidewalks were moderately full. About ten or eleven meters, and then—

A hand curving around Granger's left shoulder, yanking her backwards away from the lights and the people. Granger twisting around. Her wand hand, reaching for nothing.

Then, a second hand—big and meaty—wrapping around her left wrist and pulling so hard that Draco feared her arm would come out of its socket. She started to scream.

The hand moved from her shoulder to her mouth, and then the connecting forearm slammed into part of her throat. The sound was choked into silence right as her back hit the brick, and then her head cracked against the stone.

Fear that Draco had only felt in the face of the Dark Lord exploded inside of Granger's body, vibrating like electrical pulses as she looked up into the dark eyes of the man with the cigarette that had given her the directions.

It became apparent that he still had the cigarette when he lifted it to his lip, took a drag, and then without so much as a second to spare, ground the lit end into the center of Granger's chest.

The pain was excruciating and concentrated, unlike the type that magic could inflict. It was visceral and real. Unbearable.

Gasping, Granger's hands clawed at the man's, knocking the cigarette away. He pressed his forearm into her more firmly, allowing no air to escape past his fingers as they gripped her face tighter. As her lungs begged for air, he took his finger and pressed it into the wound. When he twisted his nail into her tender, weeping flesh, Draco truly felt imprisoned.

Blood trickled down underneath the neckline of her dress, in-between her breasts.

"So rude," the man said in English, like it was important that she remember what he had to say. "Let's see if you fuck rude, too."

He hauled back and slammed his fist into Granger's gut, right beneath her ribcage. There was no air to rush outward, so all she could do was go limp. She wheezed behind the man's hand and Draco saw her vision beginning to swim. Acute pain twisted sharp and crippling in her torso. There was panic there, her confidence withering like dying flowers.

He felt determination and dismay spinning inside of her heart. She probably wanted to reach for her wand but couldn't.

It was gone.

And the man—who smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and sweat—spun her around and smashed her into the wall. She tried to fight, but his entire girth overwhelmed her. Her fingernails scrabbled at the wall, pushing against it to try and get some space so she could breathe.

The panic increased the longer she went without air.

Draco's mind was blank. For the first time in the duration of this experience, he felt like he wasn't inside of Granger's mind anymore. He felt like he was floating somewhere outside of space and time, watching from afar.

Was this . . . Was this really happening?

The man seemed to have nothing more to say. His hands did all of the talking, the left one stroking the outside of Granger's thigh and pulling the hem of her ruched dress upward. Cool air rushed to touch her rear outside of her nylons. The man's right hand wrapped around her throat from behind and squeezed, pulling backward.

She gasped, sucking in air that tasted sweet in spite of the rankness of the man's scent.

"Please," she managed to whisper past the suffocation. As the man's hand traveled inward, squeezing between her legs, he felt her heart breaking into thousands of pieces. Both of her hands pushed against his wris. "P-Please stop."

Draco didn't care about a lot of things, but hearing Granger beg the same way she had when his aunt was torturing her? He cared about that.

Why was the universe making him watch this?

The seconds ticked by, during which Draco thought something might happen. That someone might Apparate into existence, or a Muggle might chance a look into the shadows of the alleyway. That Granger might produce her wand, or accio it even though she'd already tried and failed.

But he felt it when the man's hands slipped into her knickers from the side. He felt it when she realized that there was nothing she could do. He felt it when she gave up. He felt it when the man sunk his fingers into her bun and yanked her head back so far that it hurt.

Draco didn't want to see this.

He didn't want to watch—

"Oh God. Okay," Granger said, sounding anguished and terrified—like she had only just realized what was going on. "Oh—okay. Okay, do you want money? I can get money."

Silence.

Draco couldn't watch this—didn't want to be here—could feel everything—

The man's fingers probed. She yelped when his fingernail scratched her and tried to lift up on her tip-toes to get away.

"I can—can get on my knees?" A stuttered disguise masking the fear burning in her blood. "I'll do whatever you want me to do to you. I will, okay?"

Fuck, why was she so fucking smart? Why couldn't she just be stupid and scream as loudly as she could, instead of trying to reason with him? If she screamed between passing automobiles, then someone would hear and help her. Someone would help, because Draco couldn't. Why was she trying to talk her way out of—

"Please," she said, her breaths nearing hyperventilation. Another sob. "Please, okay? Please. I can get you any amount of money. Anything you want."

Draco wanted to reach for his galleons.

The man said nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Granger didn't realize it, but Draco did: this man was not someone who could be bought with anything but the currency of flesh.

A tearing sound.

The man had withdrawn his hand from her body—without letting go of her hair, which was causing an ache in her neck—and was now tearing a hole in her nylons.

"Wait," she said, sounding almost confused. It made Draco want to punch a wall. "Wait, wait, wait. Wait, all right? Please, wait!"

When the man dragged her knickers down and shoved his own pants and trousers down, Draco felt it.

When the man shoved himself inside of her and the pain rocketed upward through her entire body, Draco felt it.

When Gryffindor bravery failed her and she was forced to redirect all of her focus into struggling for breath past the agony, Draco felt it.

If he had the ability to use his fucking hands, that man would be fucking dead.

She screamed, but it choked off into a series of strangled sobs as the man tugged harder on her hair bun. Her neck was at an awful backward angle, her eyes only able to stare upwards at the starry sky as she was violated with violent, painful accuracy. The man knew what he was doing—it was clear he'd had these intentions the moment he'd given her the directions. And with the way he was forcing Granger's head back, the way her skin was stretched—any scream she managed to give wouldn't be loud enough.

They were loud enough for him.

Draco remembered the way those screams had echoed in his head when he'd had the nightmare. He remembered the fear and desperation in them, and he'd known that they were her even though he hadn't been able to see past the darkness.

He'd been asleep while she was being assaulted.

Salazar, fuck.

"Please stop," she whispered, and Draco felt the man twisting her hair and moving faster. It increased the pain, shoved her onto her tip-toes in her heels again. Regret washed through her for something Draco couldn't possibly know without asking her. "Just—plea—"

She cut herself off, realizing it at the same moment that Draco did.

The man liked it when she spoke.

She sucked in a shaking breath and squeezed her eyes shut, remaining silent in resilience. For some reason, Draco felt a strange sense of affection rushing through him for her.

He was glad she was smart. He was really bloody glad she was smart enough not to do anything to make this worse for herself, and better for the man.

But it reminded him of the day the Snatchers brought her into the Manor. The day his aunt pushed her to her limits and broke her. The day Draco had let fear control him.

He couldn't do anything then, but he could do something now, couldn't he?

Draco tried to take a step forward. Tried to break free of the confines of the memory and force himself into reality. Tried to do anything—Legilimency, wandless magic, wishes and hopes—to help. To do anything other than just stand there and watch. To just let her know she wasn't alone.

Nothing worked.

He fucking despised himself.

It lasted for two more minutes, during which Draco tried his best to embrace the pain because he couldn't shoulder it for her. The sickening grunts the man was eliciting would have made Draco ill if he had a corporeal form. He was certain he would never forget them.

The man staggered backward, putting himself to rights again. As he did, Granger pulled her knickers up in a stupor. Her vision was slow to refocus as she took deep breaths, fixed her dress, and smoothed her hair. On the verge of her anxiety, walking a tight rope between despair and numbness, she turned to face the man.

Draco felt strength inside of her, holding her upright as she looked her attacker directly in the eyes.

The man's eyebrows shot up—like he was astonished she was actually looking at him—and he took a step backward.

Shing!

The magic burst out of her without warning or preamble, surprising both her and Draco as power that was not visible slammed into the man's body and sent him soaring deeper into the alley. Magic sparked and tingled from her magical core, beneath her lungs. It traveled the length of her arm, masking the pain of her tender flesh and wrapped itself around her emotions to keep them intact.

Bloody Hell.

Granger stumbled out onto the busy street, nearly running into a group of drunk college-age girls in scant dresses as she did so. They cheered—because they were sozzled—and kept walking. Granger said nothing to them, instead choosing to look around.

She focused on the promenade, which was a series of shoppes lit up with Christmas lights that twinkled on and off in patterns. After looking both ways, she crossed the street to the buildings and went to the right.

Draco could feel it. Her shame.

She was trying to hold it together.

It took only a couple of minutes to locate the hotel. Granger floated in and up to the concierge like a haunt, with a false smile on her face and a tremble to her voice. She told them she'd lost her purse, gave them Molly and Arthur Weasley's names, and they called Arthur for identity confirmation. They gave her a new key after informing her of the charge for the lost key, and then she went into the elevator.

The doors slid shut and Draco caught sight of her appearance in the reflective surface.

She looked fine. Like nothing was wrong. Her curly hair was still in its bun, with the sleek "edges," he'd heard her call them to Fleur still swooped into place. Her make-up wasn't smeared and her dress wasn't torn. The only part of her that looked untoward was her nylons, as there was a run in the left knee.

However inside, she wasn't fine.

Draco could feel her heart beating too fast to track. Her muscles shook, tremulous with adrenaline and fear. Her fingertips tingled with the remnants of the outburst of her accidental magic. And she was in agony.

She couldn't breathe.

The hotel room was dark, empty of the Weaselbee. But he'd been there. Her purse was on the bed, open. Beside it was her wand.

Draco felt his anger burning hot and acidic. The oaf had taken her wand out of her purse, held it, and then left it on the bed. He'd likely contemplated bringing it back to her and then had purposefully left it behind.

And when Granger picked up her wand to perform an after-coitus contraceptive charm, Draco was certain that he wanted to hold Granger's hand. Or her. Anything. He just wanted to embrace her. He didn't care about the past, or anything they'd gone through. He didn't care about the bickering.

He wished he was in the hotel room with her so she didn't have to deal with this by herself.

An inhuman sound leaving Granger's throat tore his own thoughts back to where he presently was within the memory. She clutched a hand to her stomach, which ached as vicious as the bruises in-between her legs. The sobs wrenched their way out of her gut, hurting on their way out. Her knees buckled and she collapsed on the carpeted floor against the end of the bed. Her other hand was wrapped around her wand, clutching it tight as her heart screamed in desperation. Her mouth agape, she wailed in the dark with her cheek pressed to the edge of the mattress.

"I can't," was all she kept saying. "I can't, I can't, I can't. I can't."

Fuck. What the . . . Fuck.

Just—Fuck.

The last time Draco had felt this helpless, his mother was dead in his lap in front of the Wizengamot.

Fuck. Salazar fucking dammit.

He wished he was there so he could find that man and eviscerate him. Granger was the strongest witch he knew, and all it had taken was the Weaselbee keeping her wand from her to bring her down.

Weasley.

Fucking Weasley.

He was dead. He was dead as Hell when Draco got to him.

She wept herself into catatonia, until all she could do was inhale and exhale. She moved like a specter through the hotel room, shedding her clothing and incinerating it all with a spell. She got into a shower that was ice-cold. Draco felt it like daggers against her skin, but he accepted the pain. He could feel her accepting it, too.

He watched as she scrubbed between her legs not once, not twice, and not thrice—but five times. She dug her fingernails inside of her body, doing her best to be meticulous as she cleaned herself up. She stopped even though he could feel that she wasn't satisfied with her cleanliness and went about the rest of her shower activities as normal.

Draco simply existed within her mind as she lathered a travel shampoo into her scalp, trying his best to stay present in the moment and not flash back to everything he'd seen and felt. He stayed present as she smoothed conditioner along her curls, staring at the floor for three minutes while it soaked in. She washed it out, and then stepped out and into a towel.

When she walked past the mirror, she didn't look at herself.

Minutes later, swathed in an oversized Muggle tee shirt as pyjamas, she got into bed. She curled up on her side in the darkness, clutching her wand to her chest with trembling hands, and stared at the floral wallpaper until she grew too drowsy to keep her eyes open.

When she succumbed to the release of sleep, Draco felt that, too.