Apricity – Chapter Ten

November tripped over itself on its way into December.

The snow continued unabated, piling in the windows on Mondays and on the ground on Fridays. Sometimes, it rained, but then the temperature dropped and it turned to snow before the end of the hour. It got to the point where it was often that Draco woke and thought the world would be grey and white forever.

Things with Granger had settled into something that he could only call a "routine." They'd never talked about the memory, and she'd never come to his room at night complaining of nightmares, but there was a certain dynamic that had cropped up between the two.

Draco had stopped bothering her about her dishes, finding that it was best if he just cleaned them himself. Granger stopped yelling at him when he did, even though he saw her shooting him wary looks when he was arms-deep in soapy dishwater.

He wasn't quite sure how to act around her. It wasn't like they'd "talked" before, but now it was even more difficult. She didn't avoid him in the common room, but she was so dead silent that it felt like the silence sucked the air out of his lungs when she was around.

But the routine didn't remain trapped inside the common room.

As the remaining three weeks of November faded away, he found that he hated how much she'd frozen him out. When he went to sleep at night, he still dreamed of her, but sometimes it felt like his subconscious went to war with the dreams. Like the normal, unassuming dreams he'd been having for years were having to fight off the memories of her attack.

He just wished she would talk to him about it.

In Charms, she sat so far from him that it didn't matter, but in Divination, having her be so stone-faced made everything more difficult. From demonstration to looking her in the eyes to sitting at the table with her, it was hard.

The fact that she wouldn't let him in past the metaphorical wall she'd put up between them was the only reason why he hadn't beaten the living shite out of Weasley yet. He didn't need anything to make things worse, and he knew how delicate the situation was. Once he got a chance to talk to her, Weasley was dead. Easy enough.

Until then, he settled for watching her like a hawk.

In the common room, in the Great Hall, in class, in the corridors. No matter where they were, if they were in the same vicinity, Draco watched her. It was different than the incessant staring he'd been doing all year during mealtimes. He was watching over her, just in case. He'd never been the sort to be "protective," but he felt like he was the best person for the job.

Weasley had failed it royally in August, hadn't he?

No one ever tried to come near her or bother her, however it made Draco feel useful just to watch. Weasley kept his distance, usually sticking to the ends of the Gryffindor table and surrounding himself with other friends while Granger stuck to the middle. Usually, she was flanked by female students and friends.

But Draco noticed things about her that he hadn't noticed before.

Aside from the bizarre way her eating habits swung from separating colors on her plate to eating everything in sight, she always had her wand out on the table beside her dishes. She bounced her leg under the table, too—he saw one day when no one sat across from her. On the days where she separated her food, she took measured bites, chewed slowly, and took her time reading the Prophet or her post. On the days where she ate everything, she practically inhaled the food and left immediately after.

But she was safe, so long as he kept his eyes on her. That's what mattered to him right now.

On the second day of December, he walked a few meters behind Granger in the corridor to Charms. She was walking slower than usual, hugging her books to her chest and staring at the ground. It was unlike her, but it seemed like she was tired. He wasn't surprised by that, as she'd been exercising in the living room every morning for the past four days straight.

She was so odd.

As she neared the door, he sped up and reached past her, crowding her as he held the door open for her.

She looked up at him. "Thanks."

"Yeah."

She walked past him, her shoulder brushing his chest, and he caught a whiff of her scent. She always wore a faint perfume that smelled of gardenias. Gardenias were his mother's favorite flower.

When she got into class, instead of walking to her normal seat towards the middle of the room, she took a seat in the far back corner. She pulled out her materials like she usually did, and she looked pale. Her curls were in another pile on top of her head and under her robes, he saw she wore the clingy black cotton trousers and a grey jumper.

She looked exhausted.

Draco sat down in his normal seat beside Pansy, fighting the urge to stare at Granger more than he probably should have. He knew it was barmy—that he wasn't even trying to be subtle—but his mind and body were in a tailspin right now. All he could think about was the memory. It was burned into his brain, a trauma in its own right, and it made him feel like he was falling apart.

He wanted to be there for her, but she wouldn't let him, so all he could do was watch her.

"Hey," Pansy said, dragging the letters out in a sympathetic manner.

Draco's brows twitched together. "Hey."

"Are you doing all right?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, giving her a strange look. "Are you?"

"I'm great," she said, smiling. It was a genuine smile—the sort she used to give him before the war but that now seemed out of place with her current personality. "It feels like it's been weeks since we've talked."

"What?" His head pulled back. "I have two classes with you and see you five days a week."

"Yeah, but things are so weird right now. Have you mended things with Theo?"

"I don't want to talk about Theo," he replied. Theo and he hadn't spoken since the conversation on the bridge. Draco maintained that out of sheer loyalty, Theo should not have gone into the Infirmary. It seemed to be Theo's sentiment that he owed Draco nothing.

He didn't know why his stomach roiled with anger whenever he thought about it.

"You seem distracted."

"I am distracted," he said, pulling out parchment and quill for the inevitable lecture that Flitwick would be giving them when he arrived. "By you, right now, with your dramatics."

Fully expecting her to lash out at him, he was stunned when her response was to sigh.

"You're right. I shouldn't bother you with them."

Pansy Parkinson was not the type to feel contrite unless she had good reason. Draco could count on one hand the amount of times she'd apologized to him, and three out of four of those times, she'd only apologized for him being offended.

She would have had to do something really wrong to feel like a bother. Something that would make her feel distant from him for the past few weeks—distant enough to ask him how he was faring when they saw each other every day.

What was she hiding?

"If I didn't know any better," he said, turning to narrow his eyes down at her, "I'd say you were acting guilty about something."

"Guilty? I'm not—what would there be for me to feel guilty about?" Pansy rested her elbow on the table, propping her chin on her hand. With her quill, she scratched absentminded circles onto her parchment.

"I dunno," he said. "What are you feeling sorry for?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing," he echoed.

"Nope. Nothing." She gestured to the door with her quill. "Look—Flitwick's here."

Professor Flitwick trundled in, beginning the lecture with something new. Since it was almost Christmas, he wanted to start the month with some holiday-related charms. Draco recognized most of them as spells either his family had used around the Manor, or spells Granger had used to decorate the common room a month ago, and he felt relieved. Any day where there was no real lecture was a good day in his opinion.

First, they learned a conjuration charm for false snowflakes, haloed angels, and twinkling stars. Then, Flitwick taught them a charm for conjuring and stringing holly up. He asked for a volunteer to demonstrate in front of the class. Granger still had the energy to raise her hand.

Apparently, she already knew this charm, too.

"Welcome, welcome," Flitwick said, smiling up at Granger as she came to stand beside him. "And how is the nerve charm going? Figured out the counter spell yet?"

"Yes, I did," she said, lifting her wand with a small, polite smile. She spoke the incantation and in seconds, boughs of holly began to string themselves along the tops of the walls. The class cheered and gasped in delight.

Draco watched behind laced fingers, his gaze following the weaving boughs. He wondered if the reason she had learned the counter spell was really because she was a swot, and he wondered what drew her to be that way. What was it about her that made her want to learn spells inside and out? If it were him and he were younger, he would have learned the counter spell specifically to wreak havoc on his peers.

What did Granger want it for?

The holly boughs began to sprinkle iridescent, harmless sparkles down the walls, causing most of the class to fawn over her skills in awe. She smiled then, flashing her teeth in a genuine grin, and her gaze washed over the classroom. It fell upon Draco, who held it with an intensity that he hadn't intended, but that made itself apparent of its own accord.

She'd never smiled at him like that before.

"Are you blushing?" came Pansy's whisper to his left.

"What?" He jolted, noticing that his cheeks were warm. "Fuck no. I don't blush."

"Mhm," and it sounded like she didn't believe him.

As Granger returned to her seat, Draco noticed that the way she was walking was a bit strange. It was almost like she was swaying, or—or listing towards the left . . .

Crash!

Just like all those weeks ago, when she slammed into the table in the Three Broomsticks, Granger held the heel of her palm to her temple and knocked into the corner of Draco's side of the table. Her feet caught in the pooled hem of her robes and she pitched forward.

It was like second nature.

Draco's right arm shot out, wrapping around the front of her midsection. An oof escaped her lips as she fell into the crease, and he placed his left hand on the right side of her waist to stabilize her. Everyone was staring at them as though she'd just sprouted wings, but for a moment—as she looked at him from underneath her curly fringe with a mortified expression—it felt like they were the only two in the room.

"Good?" he murmured.

"I'm . . . Good," she whispered. "I'm fine. Let go of me."

He did, and she sprung upright lightning fast. Draco turned in his chair to watch her go back to her seat. The pitter-patter of her boots against the stone provided the backdrop to Flitwick's concerned, "Are you all right?" from the front of the room.

"I'm okay, Professor," Granger said, and the chipperness in her tone didn't seem to match the way her hands trembled.

Flitwick resumed class, and Draco turned back to face the front. He felt like his hands were tingling. His arm, his fingertips . . . Any part of him that had touched her.

It had felt right, and that was assuming there was a wrong way to feel in the first place.

Beside him, Pansy cleared her throat.

"What?" he drawled. "What sort of Pureblood would I be if I let a witch tumble to the ground near me?"

"You wouldn't be Draco Malfoy," she said, and her tone was almost fearful. It drew Draco's gaze, and when their eyes met, he was shocked to see that she looked worried. "You've always been the protective sort."

"No, I haven't," Draco spluttered, on the verge of laughter. "Have you lost your mind?"

"The time you jinxed Adrian Pucey for looking up my skirt?"

She was misunderstood. "That was—"

Pansy cut him off. "Remember Seventh Year? When you, me, and Blaise went to Muggle London so you guys could get those matching—the thingies on your forearms—the—"

Draco glared at her, but he remembered. They'd known they would never be able to rid themselves of the Dark Mark, so they'd decided to get black-and-grey anchors twined in frayed rope tattooed on their other forearms to provide some juxtaposition.

"The anchor tattoos," he said in a flat tone.

"Yeah, those! We went to get those, and that drunk Muggle said something to me. You shoved him."

"Nah, come on." He tilted his head back and slightly to the side, looking down his nose at her. "You're kidding. No, you were—"

"In Sixth Year, you walked me to class every day for three weeks straight because I told you I thought I had a stalker."

"I did not—"

"If I hexed her right now, what would you do?"

Draco was torn between Occluding and DisApparating. He rearranged his bewildered facial expression into one that was as smooth as a painting. "Nothing."

Pansy reached for her wand, plucking it off of the table. She twirled it, raising one eyebrow.

"Pansy, I'm serious—are you—?"

"I'm serious." She inhaled, opening her mouth, preparing to cast a spell.

A panic spiked inside of him—one that he couldn't place the origin of—and he fixed her with a ferocious, blazing glare.

"If you jinx her, I swear to Salazar I'll fucking—"

"Why, Draco," Pansy said, challenge woven in her voice. "That's awfully overprotective of you."

Around them, several students' conjured Christmas ornaments were floating about. Distracting though they were, Draco ignored them, knowing that to break eye contact with Pansy was to admit defeat. He didn't know if admitting defeat would make things better or worse.

She smirked. "If you admit you feel overprotective over little Miss Granger, then I won't jinx her."

"I don't fancy Granger."

"Did I say the word 'fancy' anywhere in that sentence?" Pansy glowered. "I said 'overprotective'."

"I fucking hate you, you know that?"

"Yes." Her smirk returned. "And I know you. I know how you hyperfocus and try to fix everything. You seem to think there's something in her that needs fixing. Now, admit it. Admit that you've been staring at her like a dodgy, bloody—"

"Fine," he snarled, teeth gritted. "I'm keeping an eye on her. Happy?"

"Delighted," she said, setting her wand down. "But concerned."

"Stay concerned."

Pansy huffed. "Or you can tell me what's going on."

"All right," he said in a tone that dripped with false syrup. "I will, if you tell me why you've been acting like you did something wrong."

She blanched and turned to face the front. "I'm done."

"Of course you're done."

"No," she said, raising her voice a bit. "No, I'm done."

"Of course you're done. You always check out the minute I win."

"No, this has nothing to do with—"

"It has everything to do with—"

"Mr. Malfoy. Miss Parkinson. Something you'd like to share with the class?"

The entire class turned to look at them at Professor Flitwick's words from the podium. Pansy looked livid and embarrassed, all at the same time. Draco threaded his fingers together behind his head and kicked back in his chair.

"Sorry, Professor," he said, unable to stop himself from grinning. He loved winning arguments with Pansy. "You can proceed."

Flitwick blinked. "Thank you for your permission, Mr. Malfoy. Now, class . . ."

Draco tried his best to pay attention for the duration of the period, but he found it difficult. He didn't fancy Granger, but Pansy seemed so sure that he at least cared about her enough to want to keep her safe. Which he did, after what they'd been through together.

And Granger knew. He knew she knew. Why else would she have been so shifty and snappish the night she'd returned from the Infirmary? Draco knew she knew he'd been present while she relived the memory. He didn't know if she had told anyone what happened to her but judging by the way she'd reacted to him in the hallway, she didn't want anyone to know and the fact that he did was not amenable to her.

So, yeah. He was a little overprotective right now. He knew it was improbable for the man who attacked her to ever cross paths with her again, but it didn't stop him from feeling on edge every second of every day now. Sometimes, he wondered if maybe it would be easier to stop denying the fact that he'd had her on his mind in some way since Third Year and just embrace whatever it was that drew him to her. At least then, he wouldn't have to watch over her from afar. He could just be her friend and be there.

There was just one problem.

What was Pansy so contrite about?


Draco looked up to see Eomer perched upon one clawed foot on the rim of his cup.

He raised one eyebrow, taking the scroll the owl offered to him. It was small—only a quick note of some sort—and when he opened it, the spidery scrawl looked familiar. His stomach flopped with nervousness.

It was from Ryo.

Ignoring Pansy and Blaise as they plopped down across from him for dinner, he unraveled the parchment and scanned it.

Draco,

Forgive the haste with which I send this missive. I find myself a bit concerned about the state of your internship. Unfortunately, out of all 135 employees of the Department of Mysteries, none of my coworkers are willing to take you on. I'm sure you understand.

But don't worry—I have two contacts at the Japanese Sector of Secrets. They have a similar internship program and perhaps a transfer could be arranged when you're done.

I have written to the Prime Minister of Magic in Japan to request special permission for you to enter their program. I apologize for doing so without your permission, but these things take time, and your school year is almost halfway completed. The first step after his preliminary approval will be for you to undergo an interview. The interviewer may come here to Great Britain, or they may request a Portkey for you to travel there. Either way, I hope this is amenable to you and if it isn't at this moment, please take some time to think about it.

This determines your future, Draco.

Also—have you decided about Christmas? My wife and I would, again, love to have you.

Best,

Ryo

This was horrible.

It was the worst news he could possibly have gotten.

He knew his future was bleak, but he hadn't realized that out of over one hundred witches and wizards, not a single one would be willing to give him a chance. He knew he would have a tough time settling into a career but becoming an Unspeakable was just about the only thing available for him to do. It awarded the secrecy he needed, and the secrecy the Ministry would want.

And now it was in jeopardy.

The Japanese Ministry was by no means weak—it as one of the most powerful magical organizations in the world. Japan's wizarding world was the only country in the world to not need a defense faction. Their Aurors were localized to handle problems in-country. The last time the Japanese wizarding world had gotten involved in a wizarding war, their spirit magic had wiped out an entire wizarding battalion that had come from Norway to try and claim their land. Draco remembered reading about it in History of Magic Fourth Year—it was in 1325.

But an internship in a country he'd never been to before, knowing only how to speak English and bits of Welsh? While he'd be glad for the fresh start, who was to say the things he learned in Japan would carry over to the British Ministry standards? The Japanese standards were no doubt better and more rigid than British standards, as it was common knowledge that the British Ministry of Magic had been run by buffoonery for the past three hundred years.

There were pros to this development, but there were also cons. Many, many cons.

And if nothing worked out? All he had to look forward to was an empty life at the Manor that no amount of galleons could fill.

"Draco—are you listening?"

Pansy's voice splintered Draco's thoughts, drawing his gaze from the note to her face. She was chewing a bite of her roast beef sandwich, crumbs littering the plate in front of her, and she looked concerned.

"No," he said, voice distant. "I think I've got to go."

Blaise started to speak, but Draco cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. Pansy pouted and said nothing. Draco picked up a sandwich, charmed some plastic wrap around it, and left for the Head common room.

Why was his life such a mess?

When he got to the common room, he glanced into the sitting room. It was dark save for the twinkling lights above. He went to the kitchenette and put the sandwich into the refrigerator, feeling like every step took more energy than he had inside of his body.

He felt depressed.

Draco sank down onto the couch with a heavy sigh, tilting his head back so that the base of his skull sunk into the top of the back cushions. He stared at the lights on the ceiling, at the way they twinkled on and off in adjacent patterns.

He wished he could go back in time and make all the right choices.

He ran both hands up through his hair, tangling his fingers in the strands as the despair inside threatened to overwhelm him. He took several deep, shuddering breaths. His eyes stung.

What if he agreed, and the Japanese Prime Minister didn't want to extend the internship opportunity to him? What if Draco went to the interview and couldn't answer the questions well? What if he wasn't proper, or if he sounded unintelligent? How ashamed he would be if his mother were alive and saw what a useless wizard that he was. How few prospects he had.

How he hadn't even been able to help Granger—all he'd been able to do was stand there and watch.

Again.

Fuck, he thought as a wave of bottomless grief washed over him for the first time in months. He hadn't wept since the day his mother died—the day he'd had to hold it together while he hid her secrets and scrubbed the past away. He didn't want to weep now, while he was in the bloody common room.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, which he felt inside his heart like an acute wrenching. He couldn't cry. It was a waste of time.

Don't fucking cry.

It's a waste of time.

It won't bring her back.

Draco's hands slid to cover his face, his head still tilted back on the couch. He broke down, sobbing so hard that it made his head hurt. It felt unbearable. Endless. Like an ocean tide ripping his feet out from underneath him and forcing him below the surface of his careful façade. It hurt to weep this way—it hurt to fall prey to the loss. It hurt to lose his breath like this.

He wished he could bring her back.

His hands fell to rest beside his thighs, all of the energy he had left leaving his body. Shifting, he prepared to lie down, but was stopped by a crinkling sound. He frowned.

What . . . ?

Draco moved again and realized that if he did it with a certain amount of body weight, it moved the cushions. Something was trapped between them and the back of the couch. Reaching in, he pulled it out.

"An empty crisp package?" he muttered, perplexed. "Why the bloody Hell would Granger stick this down the couch?"

For a moment, an uncomfortable sense of familiarity settled upon his shoulders. His mother and her hidden snacks. The reason why she hid them. The late nights. The loo.

He shook his head out. No. There was no way. Not Granger. She was too well-adjusted, too put together.

So was mother, he thought.

But it wasn't possible. It wasn't something Draco understood in his mother, but he knew enough about both witches to know that Granger was nothing like Narcissa. They'd both experienced their share of pain, but—

Unless.

Draco set the wrapper down and reached in again. He searched the back of the couch and in-between the three cushions. The continued crinkling and crackling started to grate on his nerves as he pulled more wrappers out. It was all Muggle foods, but he recognized them from the photos on their packaging. Sweet and savory—she didn't seem to have a preference. Every single package was empty. Granger had finished them off and stuffed them into the couch.

Why?

Shick.

The portrait swung open and Draco felt his heart leaping up into his chest. Quick as a flash, he used his free hand to wipe his cheeks. He stood up as Granger stepped into the common room. The empty wrappers discarded all over the couch stood out, shining under the Christmas lights. She stopped dead in her tracks, eyeing them.

And said nothing.

Draco was confused. Was she not humiliated, or at the very least, did she have an explanation? Hiding food wrappers was bizarre. There was just no possible way that Granger had the same issue with food that his mother had possessed—his mother was so clean, whereas Granger was downright filthy.

Well—not her—just her mannerisms.

"Care to explain?" he said, roughening his voice to mask that he'd just been weeping.

"No." She walked closer to him and dropped her books and bag onto the coffee table. She seemed shorter than usual, but perhaps that was in his mind. When she straightened her back, she glared up at him. "Before you start in on me—yes, I'm messy. We've established it. So, just move and I'll throw them out."

Draco saw her reach to pull her wand out of the sleeve of her robes, and he forgot himself and their circumstances. He started to move toward her. A flash of panic entered her eyes—something he never would have recognized had he not walked her memory—and she whipped the tip of her wand up into the underside of his chin. It pressed into the flesh, stinging, but he ignored it.

"I told you not to touch me," she hissed, eyes blazing.

"I wasn't going to touch you," he growled. "I was just—look, I wasn't going to start in on you. I just wanted an explanation. You—"

"Well, you're not going to get one!" she cried, her voice suddenly shrill and her eyes wild. She took a step back, her wand arm trembling. It seemed as though she couldn't look at the wrappers. Like she was ashamed of it.

She should be, he thought, feeling bitter. Why the fuck would she stuff rubbish into the couch?!

"I don't have time for this," she whispered, sounding like she was floating somewhere between anxiety and rage. "Evanesco."

"You had time to stuff them in there," Draco said, crossing his arms. "Yet you don't have time to tell me why?"

"Just shut up, Malfoy!" she shrieked, causing Draco to flinch back in astonishment. "Just shut up! Stop policing everything I do! I can't . . ." She made a frustrated sound through bared teeth, hands in fists as she stomped one foot. "Take it anymore! The dishes, the dishes. Every day, it's the dishes! It's the books and the papers and the trash in the couch and the fact that I'm in the loo for too long! Can't you just leave me alone?!"

Draco opened his mouth to ask her what policing meant but stopped himself. By the look on her face, the ruddiness of her cheeks, and the way he could see her arms trembling, she was not in a right state. And knowing what he knew about Paris—remembering how she'd fallen apart on the floor of that hotel room with the knowledge that her wizard had kept her wand from her with intent—he knew better than to let his anger control him at this moment.

"I can't, I can't, I can't."

He was aggressive and he was controlling and he was by no means perfect, but he never wanted to be angry with her again. Salazar knew she had enough rage burning inside of her for the both of them.

"Granger, take a fucking second, will you?"

She paused mid-rant, sucking in her breath and holding it. Her hands were shaking so much that her fingers were curled.

She didn't look okay at all.

Draco took a cautious step toward her, gaze bouncing back and forth between her frenzied eyes and clenched hands. He'd never been in this situation before and he didn't know exactly what to say. He just knew that whatever she said, he needed to counter it.

"Let out your breath," he said. "You're going to get lightheaded."

"You're not supposed to be in here," was her reply, and it came out as a borderline sob. "Why aren't you at supper?"

"Does it matter? Breathe."

She exhaled right as Draco inched closer to her. They were between the coffee table and the couch, and he could smell the scent of her perfume. The Christmas lights illuminated her face, just like they had in the kitchen the night she'd cried over the Weaselbee.

"I don't have time for this," she said under her breath, shaking her head. "I don't have time for this. I don't have time."

"You have time," he said, trying to keep his voice as soft as possible. He took another step, and he was right in front of her. With a slow, smooth pace, he lifted his hands to grab hers for the first time. Left hand pressed to her right; right hand pressed to her left. He wrapped his fingers around them, feeling how rigid they were in her panic.

She tried to pull away but he held tighter, his forefingers curving around the back of her palms. His thumb dug into her pressure points, a place his mother had shown him to be calming during the times that he felt panicked during the war. He wanted to soothe her, but at the same time, he wasn't sure why. Was he in denial? Did he fancy her? Or was this just a result of being present in the midst of her traumatic memory?

He was also apprehensive. The last time they'd been alone together, conversing, she'd struck him in the face. What if she slapped him again?

"Calm down."

"I don't want to be calm." Her head rocked from side to side. "I don't—"

"Calm," he murmured, raising his chin, "down."

"No, I don't—Malfoy—" She ripped her hands away, her panic levels rising in her eyes again. "I don't want to be calm! I told you to leave me alone!"

Before he could do or say anything else, she shoved past him and locked herself in the loo.

Draco scowled, dropping his head back and scrubbing at his face with his hands. She was insufferable. She was a nightmare.

Why the fuck did she put food wrappers into the couch?!

His dorm room door slammed shut moments later.