Apricity – Chapter Twelve

The walk back to the Head common room felt long.

And it was, when Draco really thought about it. To go from the top floor to the first to return usually took him twenty minutes by himself. With Granger's short legs, it was going to take the two of them even longer to make it back.

Which was perfect.

He was going to ask her about the Weaselbee.

"I'm honestly quite surprised Minerva let you go so long without doing rounds," Granger was saying as they padded along. "When was the last time you did them? September?"

"Minerva?" he said, running his fingers through his messy platinum blonde hair. "Awfully familiar of you, don't you think?"

"It's not like that," she said.

"Of course it is," he said, eyes scanning the corridor as though he were looking for something. "You're Hermione Granger, the Golden Girl." He gave a gentle wave of both hands in the air to emphasize her accolades. "You would refer to the Headmistress by her first name."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she asked, her steps slowing a bit as the tension ramped up a few notches.

Draco tried not to smirk. "You're extremely easy to rile up, you know that?"

"Well, when you insinuate that the professors play favorites with me based upon some—some strange preconceived notion that you've been holding towards me since we were like, twelve . . . It gets a little infuriating."

At this, he allowed himself to give the air in front of him a half of a smirk. "A little?"

"A lot, actually. You don't 'rile me up.'" He could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "You brass me off. There's a difference."

"Fuck." He laughed, unable to stop the sound from bubbling out of his chest. "You're not wrong."

When he glanced over at her, his smile still fading, he was surprised to see her lips twitching. She turned her head for a moment, as quick as she could, and then a mask of haughtiness washed over her face.

"I call her Minerva because she's like a second mother to me. And since I'm lacking a first one right now, she's the closest thing I have. She's not just a Headmistress to me. She's . . . Er . . . Oh."

The silence seemed to ring. Draco understood without her having to say anything that she'd just given him more information than she wanted to. Which he knew firsthand didn't feel too great, but at the same time—he didn't think any differently of her. In fact, the more he thought about it, the lighter his steps felt.

Granger had just told him personal information. Like an acquaintance or a—a friend. It was unintentional, but it meant that for a second, she'd felt like she could.

"I understand," Draco said, remaining cautious. He wasn't exactly in the mood to bleed his heart, but he knew if he ever had a shot at getting Granger to at least talk about the memory, he had to start somewhere. "If I had a chance at a second mother, I believe I'd take it, too. Is she . . . ?"

"No," Granger said, her tone flat. "She's alive. I don't want to talk about it, though."

They stood on a moving staircase, headed down to the fourth floor. It was cold, but Draco didn't mind the feeling of the cool air upon the bare skin of his arms. It was comfortable walking the castle in his pyjamas in the odd way it felt to walk around barefoot at home when he was younger. The soft schlepping noises of his slippers against the stone were a strange comfort in a distant way. Like he was home, but aware that it wasn't home-home.

He looked down at Granger and felt his stomach beginning to churn.

It was difficult to see her there, standing with her hand on the railing and her face forward, shoulders back and standing tall. Difficult to see her look no different now than she did before the events of August 17th.

When he looked at her, it was hard for him not to see past the façade and remember the feelings of fear and helplessness. The hope when she tried to talk her way out of it, and the resignation when she realized she couldn't. The pain when she cried on the floor at the foot of the bed. The numbness when she showered.

Granger was and always had been as strong as stone to him. That was why he'd tried so hard to chip away at her. He'd thought that in flame, she would be forged into diamond. But there they were—the cracks running throughout. She looked like a diamond on the outside, but inside, he knew she had to be floating in a zirconian fog.

He at least understood that.

Though Draco had never been the emotional sort, he felt something gut-wrenching for her. It wasn't hatred. No, it was something he couldn't quite place. The best way he could think to explain it was having the desire to hold her hand and caress her skin, while also wanting to murder anyone who looked in her direction.

And that terrified him because he still didn't. Know. Why.

"If it makes you feel any better," Granger said as the staircase neared the landing, "my friends don't call her by her first name, so it's not like it's a Golden Trio sort of debacle. You don't have to worry that Harry only graduated because she let him, or that she's padding Ron's transcripts for the Auror Department. Or whatever barminess you come up with to justify hating us."

Draco opened his mouth to protest, crossing his arms and leaning back against the railing. He was so tall that he could almost perch on the banister without effort, but he didn't fancy plummeting to his death so he remained with his feet flat on the steps.

"I don't hate Potter," he said. "I don't particularly want to be his best mate, but I don't hate him."

"Anymore."

"Yes, anymore."

The staircase docked, lurching to a stop. It wasn't fast or violent, but for some reason, Granger let out a gasp and pitched forward.

Draco gave no second thoughts—he reached out and grabbed her hand.

Their skin pressed together and he felt a familiar storm of grey beginning to swirl in his vision again, like it had been sleeping and was now awake again. He wrapped his fingers around hers and yanked her upright before she could fall. As he did, he saw that her other hand was pressed against her left temple.

"All right?" he murmured.

"I'm fine," she said, her voice seeming to become swallowed up by the room. Her palms were colder than the air and the contrast caused him to give her hand an involuntary squeeze. "I just felt a little faint. Poor timing."

"Ah," he said, pulling her onto the landing with him.

She cleared her throat. "My—my hand."

"Faint, you say." He didn't let go. "You seem to feel faint often."

"Wh-what? No, I . . . Can you just—my hand."

Draco narrowed his eyes, a new suspicion arising. "Why are you deflecting?"

"Deflecting? I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You nearly face-planted in the Three Broomsticks, and—"

"Malfoy, let go of my hand!" she cried, her voice echoing. The suddenness of her shrieking startled him, and he let go of her as though she'd caught fire. She glared up at him while she rubbed her fingers in anxious motions. "Just . . . Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me unless I say it's okay."

Draco wanted to die for the shame that burned in his heart. Of course she wouldn't want to be touched. What the fuck was he thinking?

A month ago, he would have been offended that she didn't want his skin touching hers. But now, he understood.

"If you ever asked, I'd think something had come loose up there," he said, tapping the side of his skull with one long finger.

"Yeah, well." She gave him a once-over, her brow furrowed. Then, she started walking towards the next set of moving stairs.

Draco caught up to her, trying to push back his negative feelings towards himself. It wasn't like they were new, and it wasn't like he didn't already think ill of himself. He just didn't understand why he did things without thinking first.

Perhaps it was because of his father. Lucius operated under the assumption that his blood status alone meant that the world turned for him rather than in spite of him. Every step he took, he assumed the world was spinning to award him a place to plant the sole of his boot. That Pureblood wizards were nature's chosen ones, and that anyone who was sullied by the inferiority of Muggle blood wasn't worthy of his gaze. He instilled those same values into Draco, which was the main reason why the younger Malfoy was such a fucking prat before Sixth Year.

Well, he was still a prat that year, it was just less external.

Fuck, all of this stress was starting to wear on him. What he wouldn't give for some fucking weed.

"You said you don't hate Harry," Granger said as they rounded a corner.

"Yeah. I don't. I don't give fuck-all about him, but I don't hate him."

"But you didn't say that about Ron."

There.

Right there.

His opportunity.

"Because I hate Weasley," he said. "You know that."

"I do know that."

"So why are you asking?"

"I'm not asking anything. I didn't ask a question."

Their bickering continued, words and accusations volleying back and forth down the third and second floors' staircases. Draco was trying to figure out a way to steer the conversation towards Weasley so that he could figure out not only what the oaf knew, but the outcome of the cheating situation. Granger seemed hyper-focused on the fact that Draco didn't hate Potter, but despised Weasley—like she wanted him to admit it when there was nothing hidden to admit in the first place.

When they made it to the ground floor, Draco had had enough.

"What do you want from me, Granger?" he snapped, turning to face her and throwing one hand up into the air. "Do you want me to walk up to him and punch him the face? Huh? You want me to smash his face into a wall until his nose bleeds? What the fuck? What the fuck do you want?"

A few seconds passed where she stared at him in astonishment and then without letting her breath out, she answered him.

"Yes."

He blinked. "What?"

"Just—!" She let out a scowl and turned around. He saw one of her hands wrapping around the hem of her pleated skirt. The other one moved to curve around the back of her neck. "It's selfish of me, but yes. I do. I just want someone to . . . Beat him up. It's so juvenile and stupid, but that's what I want. It's wrong of me, but—"

"Hey," Draco said, tone gentle. He reached forward as if to touch her arm, then snatched his hand back. "It's not stupid. Juvenile, perhaps. But not stupid."

Not turning back around, she said, "Wrong?"

Draco huffed. "The last person to ask about wrong versus right is me, Granger."

"I'm just . . ." She hung her head. "Tired of feeling like I'm the only one who can defend myself. It gets tiring. Constantly fighting for myself when sometimes I just want . . . I just want . . ."

"A tall boy with tattoos to beat your ex-boyfriend up?"

She whirled around to glare at him, and he saw her lifting her hand as though to slap him again. He couldn't help it—he burst out laughing and stepped back.

"Okay, okay!" he said. "I'm just fucking with you."

She wrinkled her nose in a pout of irritation and then crossed her arms over her chest. "Don't put it like that. It's humiliating and sounds even more immature."

"But I'd do it," he said, slipping his hands into the pockets of his trackies. "If you asked."

For a second—just a second—it looked like she was fighting the urge to smile. "I doubt that. Risking your parole that way? You'd lose your wand and go straight to Azkaban. Possibly get expelled on top of that."

Draco lowered his gaze, frowning as the light spirit in the air suddenly dwindled to nothing. It mingled with the grey smoke inside of him and turned it black with rage. His future was already uncertain, but how he felt about the Weaselbee was as certain as the sun coming up every day.

The day the sun stopped rising was the day Draco Malfoy would not want to beat the fuck out of Ron Weasley.

"It'd be worth it. He deserves it."

She started to say something, then seemed to change her mind. Her brows twitched together and she shook her head. Without another word, she turned and headed down the corridor towards their dorm room. He followed, and they passed the Great Hall with a quiet yet charged silence between them.

Draco didn't want the opportunity to pass. He needed to get somewhere with her on the path towards talking about the memory. It was impossible for him to forget that it had happened, and he was never going to forget what he'd seen. Just because she wanted to pretend it hadn't happened didn't mean he could pretend he hadn't felt what she'd felt when he was there inside her head.

"So you want it done at breakfast or lunch?"

"What?" She slowed to a stop right before an alcove they were both familiar with. "Don't be ridiculous. You can't actually attack Ron."

"Yes, I can," he said, eyebrows shooting up. "Are you joking? I can do whatever the fuck I want."

"But the consequences are typically supposed to outweigh the desire, Malfoy."

"Typically they would, Granger."

They held each other's gaze in yet another challenge.

"You're ridiculous," she said. "Do you live in a completely different dimension from the rest of us? You can't just do whatever you'd like. There are rules and there are—are cogs to the machine that fit together the way they're supposed to."

"Granger." Draco breathed a laugh, then rubbed the stubble on his chin with his fingers. "I know how things work. I'm a Pureblood. The rules of wizarding society were set by people like my father."

"Then what's the difference?"

"The difference is that I don't give a fuck about the rules or the consequences or the 'cogs in the machine.' In this particular situation, I would be willing to risk all of that just to smash his face into his breakfast. I would, and the only reason why you don't want me to is because you're afraid of what people will think of you. Which is exactly how my father raised me—to care what everyone thinks of me, which is why I was such a prat to everyone else. So, what's the difference? The difference is that now, I don't care what my father raised me to believe."

Granger lifted one brow and he went on.

"Weasley deserves a hex to the gut," he snarled, and then he lifted his clenched fist in front of him, "and my fist in his fucking face."

Both of Granger's hands went to the hem of her skirt, where she gripped it and fidgeted with it. He saw her chew her lips, clearly unsure of what to say next. Fortunately for her, Draco knew exactly what he wanted to say next.

"Has he spoken to you since you broke up?"

"No," she said. "And I never wrote him the letter. I just . . . Walked up to him and told him I knew he was cheating. He told me—" She looked away and then said, "He took it better than expected."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. He just . . . Took it better than expected."

"What did he say?" Draco growled through his teeth.

"Nothing." Granger blinked, looking like she wanted to take a step back. "Just leave it alone. And don't say anything to him. I don't know why I even suggested it. Let it be."

He bit his lip and looked down into the shadows of the alcove. He nodded to himself, on the verge of marching up to the Fourth floor, where the Eighth Year common room had been built. If the way he'd heard the Weasel speak to her was of any indication, he was sure it wasn't nothing. The Weaselbee had probably had all sorts of fun, neat things to say to her.

Draco didn't like that.

"All right. Yeah. Sure." He pushed his fingers through his fringe, and it fell back into his eyes. "You do realize that people have seen him with witches at night, right? Like, usually around the time that we left the common room."

"I know."

"Well . . . Weren't you worried we were gonna run into him tonight?" They started walking.

"I was concerned, yes. I thought we might . . . I dunno, see him during rounds. I'm glad we didn't. I have one class with him, but I try to avoid him otherwise. I know I said I wanted to keep the friendship—after all, it's been seven-and-a-half years—but I think I need time."

They only made it a few meters.

Draco stopped, the opening of the alcove to his left seeming small and dark. His mind turned and spun, beginning to make sense of things.

The suddenness of him needing to go on rounds. The fact that she'd admitted she wanted him to deal with Weasley. Nevermind the fact that it was completely out of character for Granger to want physical violence for someone she'd considered a friend, why him? Why did she want Draco specifically to be the one to do it?

"Granger."

"Hm?" She turned to him.

He raised one eyebrow and said nothing. Slowly, her mouth tipped down into a grimace. She averted her eyes.

"McGonagall didn't want me to do rounds, did she?"

She sighed and said, "No. I mean, she does. But she didn't talk to me about it today like I said she did. And I may or may not have seen Ron holding hands with Hannah at dinner, so I was feeling a bit Slytherin."

"So you picked a Slytherin."

"You're the one who knows all the—the places, or whatever the castle's got. You used to sneak around the corridors at night with witches, didn't you? I figured we would—we would catch him, or he'd run into us, and then . . ."

"And then what?"

Her grimace turned into a weak smile. "I assumed there would be an argument and since it's nighttime and there's no professors, the two of you would get into a row. And then . . ." She held up her fist. "Faces would be struck?"

Draco laughed. He laughed, and he couldn't stop. He tilted his head back, holding one hand over his stomach while the humor and absurdity of the situation overwhelmed him.

As much as he truly did want to have words with the Weasel, the thought of Granger plotting to manipulate Draco into being her personal bodyguard for a night? Granger, Hogwarts' resident swot, had tried to out-Slytherin a Slytherin.

It was hilarious.

"What?!" she cried. "He's terrified of you, and that's why he's so quick to reach for his wand around you! I didn't think getting the row to start would be the most difficult part."

"How would this row ensue?!" Draco said between laughs, his vision swimming with tears of mirth. "We'd burst into the Prefect's bathroom and find him shagging someone over the loo?!"

"Shut up!" she cried, stomping her foot.

"If you want me to kick his arse, just ask," he said. "Don't . . . Don't orchestrate a plot to trick me into it. Honestly, it would take less than a question, Granger. A pointed look is all I'd need."

"I didn't want to do that—to ask. It's—it feels wrong to even think about it." She hugged herself against the drafty air.

"But not wrong to create an entire plot to get me to do it?"

"Uh—" Another grimace and then a wince. "No?"

"Well, what the Hell were you thinking would get him worked up enough to want to fight?! Just seeing my face?!"

"Um . . ." She grimaced again and lifted her shoulders in a meek shrug. "I said it was juvenile and stupid."

Confused, he shook his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"I thought we would . . . I dunno—find some way to make it look like we were snogging?"

Draco let out a stuttered laugh, blinking rapidly as his stomach twisted into a tight knot.

She said, what now?