Apricity – Chapter Seventeen
Draco wondered if she'd gone mental.
She had to have, for any of what she'd just said to make sense. Only someone who was completely mad would say that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were soulmates. Not only was it pseudomagic, but there were no historical ties between the Malfoy lineage and a random Muggle family that had someone magical somewhere back down the line.
He paused his thoughts.
No. He didn't want to subscribe to those ideals anymore. Being a Pureblood didn't mean that he was more special or worthy than anyone else. Hermione was a better person than him in countless ways and he knew that.
And the way she was looking at him—it was beseeching. She needed him to be in her corner and he'd vowed to himself that he would be. After Paris, he wasn't going to do anything else.
"A false bond? What do you mean a false bond? What is a false bond?"
"Don't yell at me," she snapped, and then she marched back over. "This passage here states that 'star bonds can only be created—they aren't found in nature."' She looked at him, eyes wide. "It means that a star bond is not something that occurs at birth, or inherently. A witch or wizard has to cast the spell to link the person to the star."
"How does that even work?" He held two fingers to his right temple, massaging it against the sudden headache. "How does one get linked to a star?"
"It's metaphorical. Well, sort-of. Basically, it's a linking of your magical core to a star to influence your fate. Ergo, to make good or bad things happen to someone. Since it's created by someone casting the spell, the spell's intention determines the outcome."
"I'm not following."
She let out an exasperated sound. "Take Astrology. We're assigned a star sign according to where the sun was when we were born. For me, the sun was in Virgo, therefore I am a Virgo. And you're—"
"June 5th. Gemini."
"Right. So, with our horoscopes, we can determine our fate—whether it be the upcoming day, or using an almanac to predict where our lives might take us."
"The poor man's Divination," Draco murmured, remembering something he'd heard his father say once when he was younger.
"Yes, actually." Hermione tilted her head to the side. "That's very clever, Draco."
He felt heat rising to his cheeks, but he didn't tell her who he'd gotten it from. He figured his father owed him something.
"But," she went on, beginning to pace back and forth near the small, snow-laden window, "our star signs are assigned at birth by chance. But if someone were to say, want their daughter to be assigned to the fate of the . . . Oh, I dunno . . . Aries horoscope for the rest of her life, they would create that bond through simulation. A spell or—or a ritual, even. You wouldn't even need that person to be present in order to do it. You might only need something that belongs to them, or represents them."
"Okay," Draco said slowly.
"So a star bond is a spell created to bond a person to a star. But not the actual fate of the star or a constellation, with the burning and the dying—but to bind it to whatever is predicted in its horoscope, if you will. For example, if Virgo's horoscope says that I'm going to have a good day, and someone decides to bind themselves to the stars in Virgo even though they're not a Virgo . . . Then they'd be able to siphon that good energy into their life. Does that make sense?"
"Sort-of."
"I don't think it's that deep," Hermione said, waving a hand about. "Because all that matters is that you understand that star bonds are not naturally-occurring—they're spells that are cast by witches and wizards to achieve an end goal."
"All right."
She sat back down in the chair to read aloud from the book, her leg bouncing as the words tumbled from her lips in a rush. "'The prime example of this type of magic can be found in pre-Victorian Pureblood marriage bonds. Primarily used between the 12th and 17th centuries, witches and wizards would arrange marriages for their children using star bonding magic. They would bind each baby to their own binary star, and then they would facilitate the awakening of their bond when they came of age. This magic would tie the witch and wizard together until they died.' Until they died, Draco. That means two people bonded to two stars, and then connected like a four-point square. The power of those stars, coming together to intertwine their destinies." She stared at him, looking almost terrified. "That's a soulmate bond."
Draco frowned, looking down at the top of the table in thought. He knew more about Pureblood marriage bonds than he probably should, but he hadn't studied them in-depth. He knew that many families had their own types of marriage bonds that they used, and he knew that with the Victorian era and the succession of the witch Queen Victoria to the throne, all bonds were consolidated into one simple binding spell at the age of fifteen.
Perhaps there was something about star bonds that was unorthodox?
"But where are you connecting that to us?" He gave her a bewildered look.
"Let me finish!" she said, breathless as she continued to read. "'An individual who has been star bonded to another person may not ever cross paths with that person, but will feel incomplete until such a time as they do. When or if they come into contact, the individuals will experience a series of progressive symptoms intended to encourage the completion of the bond. Symptoms can include but are not limited to: desire to touch the skin of their bondee, a lack of acute emotions, appearance in dreams, a drive towards consummation, and an inexplicable draw to compassion for the bondee that is best described as obsession. Many of these symptoms can be dangerous. For more, see the book . . .' And then it lists a book specifically about ancient marriage bonds and what they entail."
"Well, that's convenient."
"Yes." She met his eyes, chewing on her lower lip.
"Granger, we need that fucking book."
"I know."
"How do we get it?"
"I'll ask Madam Pince," she said, closing the book. "She will probably be able to order it."
"So . . . What makes you think we're bonded together? Because I know for certain I've felt all of those things. And the dreamwalking aside, that would mean that you've been feeling it, too. The emotional colorblindness especially."
She lowered her head as though she felt contrite, or he'd caught her breaking wizarding law. "I know."
Draco's heart skipped a beat as he tried to remain calm. It was one thing to discuss the star bonds in theory given that he'd thought he was the only one feeling the storm. It was another thing to accept that it were true. If she felt it, too, then that made it all the more real.
Which was terrifying.
"For—" He cleared his throat, leaning back in the chair and letting his hands rest between his legs. He was trying to appear nonchalant, when in reality, he felt like panicking again. "For how long?"
"I guess . . ." Her mouth twisted to the side. "I guess since the day I found out about Ron. Specifically, when you gave me the cauldron cake. I thought I felt something odd when our fingers brushed, and then after that, I didn't hate you as much."
He couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "You could have fooled me."
"I just have a short temper these days," she muttered. "I didn't know what it meant."
"But the dreams. The first time for you was the night before last, wasn't it?"
"Yes," she said. "And you were able to see me and converse with me. Yet you were in my dreams for years and I had no idea that you were. So, I'm not sure what that means, but I think we'll know more once we get that book."
Draco studied her, hearkening back to the moment in Third Year when she punched him in the face. He remembered feeling the pain in his broken nose, the blood flowing from his nostrils. He remembered staggering and nearly toppling to the ground. And he remembered running.
The first dream hadn't happened until he returned home, but the exhaustion and the emotional colorblindness had started a week or so later. He couldn't remember encountering anyone or anything before that time who could have cast a bonding spell on the two of them, and when he thought back on his First and Second years, there was nothing to indicate that he could have been part of a ritual where this occurred.
The only person left that he could ask was the last person he ever wanted to see again.
"Can you speak with your father?" Hermione asked, as if reading his mind. "Could you perhaps write to him and ask him what he knows? Because this is an old Pureblood custom and if anyone would know more, it would be him."
Shifting with discomfort, he tilted his head back and dragged the fingers of both hands through his hair. He changed the subject. "Wouldn't you need to be present for a bonding spell between the two of us? I don't know about you, but I don't recall the two of us taking part in such magic."
She shook her head, her curls bouncing a bit. "Not necessarily. Think of it in terms of ancient hex magic. If I wanted to cast a generic hex for bad fortune on someone I disliked, then I wouldn't need them present—I would only need something that meant something to them, or something that belonged to them. Whoever bonded us—if that's the case—wouldn't need either of us there at all."
They sat there in silence for a few more moments before Draco's stomach gave a loud growl, reminding them of their next class and planned lunch afterward. Hermione hid a small smile, and Draco suggested they head to Charms. Hermione agreed, and they gathered up the books. She went to speak to Madam Pince about the bonding magic book while Draco put the others away.
When he was alone in the stacks, he let out a deep, heavy breath.
Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy.
Soulmates.
Draco was distracted, but not too distracted to remember their deal.
Madam Rosmerta looked shocked to see the two of them walking into the Three Broomsticks together, her jaw hanging open as she struggled to find words. Hermione didn't seem to notice, as she was too busy glancing around the restaurant. Draco felt nerves acting up in his abdomen. The last time he'd been here, it was with Theo, someone who was also a Slytherin. But here he was, on what looked like a friendly outing with none other than the Girl Who Won the War.
The elder witch led them to a table in the back corner, left them some menus, and then walked away with one more glance in Draco's direction.
"Fuck," he cursed, a little annoyed as he took off his coat. He pushed the sleeves of his jumper up to his elbows, revealing his tattooed forearms.
"What?" Hermione asked, tearing her gaze off of the menu. She looked at his arms, her eyes lingering for a few moments. "What's the matter?"
"It's Madam Rosmerta," he said. "Every time I come in here, she looks at me like she thinks I'm going to Avada everyone in the establishment. If she knew anything at all about me, she'd know I was the worst Death Eater in the ranks."
Hermione snorted, and Draco sent her a sharp look. She covered her mouth, her eyes twinkling.
"No, I'm sorry. It's just—That's funny."
"Oh, it's funny, is it?' he snarled. "Which part? The part where I'm a bloody coward? Or the part where—"
"The part where you let everyone think you were this scary Death Eater for the Dark Lord," she said, stifling a giggle. "It's just funny. You're not as scary as you look."
"I look scary?"
"Draco, come off it." Her expression was deadpan. "You're covered almost from head to toe in tattoos. I've told you this before—it's not normal."
"And who are you to tell me what's normal? Little Miss Stuffs-Wrappers-in-Couch."
She blanched, the color draining from her face right as Madam Rosmerta floated a couple of Butterbeers in their direction. Yet another wary glance was cast in Draco's direction, this time honing in on his exposed Dark Mark. It felt like her gaze was made of the fires of mistrust and disappointment.
Draco couldn't help it—he spoke up.
"Is it the tattoos, or is it just me?" he asked. "Because you don't have to worry about me burning down the establishment, Madam Rosmerta. I respect you a little more than that."
She blinked and then like lightning, a real, genuine smile spread across her face.
"What can I get for you two?" she asked, her voice like liquid gold as she placed a hand on Hermione's back. "We've got the hamburger you like, Hermione, or perhaps you two would like something a little more hearty? Maybe a stew, or a pot pie?"
Hermione looked as taken aback as Draco felt by her switch in attitude.
"I think we're both going to have a steak," Draco said, remembering their deal. "Mine medium and—Hermione?"
"Um . . . Medium well," she said, giving Rosmerta a small smile.
"Excellent choices," Madam Rosmerta said. "I'll go ask the cook to get them started, and they'll be right out in the next fifteen-twenty minutes. Let me know if you need anything else."
She bustled off, leaving Hermione and Draco in a natural lull in their conversation.
Draco glanced around, seeing more than a few of their classmates entering the Three Broomsticks for lunch as well. For a brief moment, he worried that Theo might show up.
Salazar, Draco hoped he didn't decided he wanted a burger for lunch.
"See?" Hermione eventually said, crossing her arms and giving him a smug grin. "I told you that you'd changed. Even Madam Rosmerta can see it."
"Tch. Took her long enough."
"Well, you've got to be realistic," Hermione said. "You know who you are, and I know who you are now. But for the rest of your life, there's going to be people who only see you for who you used to be. You won't be able to change that."
"I know," he said. That doesn't make me feel any better, though.
"I'm unsurprised that Pansy sat as far away from my side of the room as possible," Hermione then said, a Devilish smile curling up on her face.
"Perhaps she thought you were going to throw yourself across her desk," Draco shot back, unable to keep himself from smirking, too. He took a drink of his Butterbeer, watching hers go untouched. "You're positively feral."
"I might have, since I didn't get to make the message clear to her yesterday."
"And what, pray, is the message?" he asked, laughing.
"Not to forget who I am. I can't believe she poisoned my tea. I ought to show her what it feels like when someone with an E in Herbology poisons tea."
Draco eyed her, trying not to laugh again. If Hermione was anything, she was dramatic. More so than he'd originally thought. In Charms, he'd chosen to sit beside her that day since he didn't see any reason not to, and the amount of times he'd been in the line of sight of the two witches glaring at one another was uncountable.
"You're not drinking your Butterbeer," he said, lifting his eyebrows.
"You ordered it without asking me, so you only have yourself to blame." She tossed her curls back over her shoulder. "Besides, do you know how many calories are in them?"
Calories.
Hermione was worried about calories.
Well, shite.
Draco felt his heart sinking. Denial at this point was accepting unintelligence. She may not have the exact issue that his mother had, but the fact that she worried over the caloric content of a damn drink was information enough to let him know her weight meant something to her.
Which was ridiculous. The girl exercised enough for the entire Slytherin Quidditch team. She was the size of a fucking waif.
He had to think of something. He had to think of something to say that wouldn't make anything worse.
"You know you're beautiful as fuck, yeah?"
She stared at him as though he'd just sprouted horns. In the silence, his anxiety got the best of him. Had he gone too far? Was that not something he should have said?
"I mean, you don't have to worry about your weight," he said, swallowing against his nerves. "Calories, sugar—none of that nonsense."
The planes of her face tightened and she averted her eyes. "You say that as if the alternative can't exist at the same time. Like if I did need to—in your opinion, from your perspective—need to worry about my weight, I wouldn't be beautiful."
"Well, I . . . I didn't mean—" Fuck. What the fuck was wrong with him?
"It's not like it's either-or. It's not like I can be either beautiful or need to watch my weight. I can be both, and you don't have to apply a negative connotation to my body size." Her eyes were as hard as stone.
Maybe he wasn't as suave with witches as he'd originally thought.
"You're right," he said, voice shaking. "Forgive me."
She folded her arms on the table and leaned forward, as though she were cold. She glanced toward the door and Draco couldn't help but wonder if she was regretting coming with him. He wouldn't be surprised if she was.
"I just worry about you," he added, and then he took another sip of his own drink. "But maybe I'm wrong to."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
She scrutinized his face. "Why do you worry about me?"
"I don't . . . I have no idea how to answer that question. I just do. We're friends, aren't we?"
Her lips twisted to the side. "Perhaps it's just the bond."
Yes, there was that little problem. The fact that any feeling he had towards her might be false or fabricated. The fact that someone somewhere in the past had possibly decided it might be a great idea to bond the two of them to binary stars and influence their destinies forever. Everything he felt towards her might only be created by stardust in his veins.
But what he had seen in her memory of Paris . . . Was that not enough for him to care? Was he truly that heartless without the power of a magical bond? What if without the bond, he would have turned out to be an even worse person? What if it had sparked a series of horrific choices that led to him not lowering his wand in the Astronomy Tower?
What if without a hypothetical bond, he would have been the one to kill Dumbledore?
"And what if it is just the bond?" he asked, lowering his voice so people at nearby tables didn't hear their conversation. "What if our friendship is false?"
"Then I wouldn't be surprised," she said, staring at her untouched Butterbeer. "But I've done a lot of reading in my time—" She stopped midsentence when he snorted into his drink. "—and usually marriage bonds can't influence whether or not the emotion is based in reality. They can only influence the gravity with which the emotion is felt. There has to be a feeling there in the first place. That's why potions like Amortentia are regulated by the Ministry. Potions aren't magic—they're perversions and manipulations of it. Amortentia simulates love."
"And you're theorizing a star bond doesn't simulate—it only intensified?"
"We come from the stars, Draco," she said. "It stands to reason that emotions like happiness, sadness, and yes—even love come from the cosmos, too."
He nodded, resting his chin in his hand and elbow on the table. She was right. If all life on Earth came from the depths of space, and emotions were inherent in humanity, then it made sense that even with a star bond, the feelings would be real.
Which would mean however he felt about her, she felt the same.
But the first time Draco had noticed the grey storm, he'd been fourteen years old. At fourteen, he'd thought he hated Hermione.
Unless he hadn't.
"If someone did bond us together, they would have to be powerful," Hermione said, her voice breaking into his thoughts. "Someone like a professor or other adult. Do you think perhaps your parents might have—"
Draco cut her off with a series of coughing, spluttering noises as the Butterbeer nearly went down the wrong side of his throat. Shock resonated throughout his body at the thought of his parents—his Pureblood parents who hated all things Muggle—casting a spell to bond him to a star with the Muggle-born witch that his father had forbid him from fraternizing with at the end of First Year.
"Have you gone mental?" he said. "My parents would have offed themselves before bonding the two of us together. That is the last thing they would have wanted. If I even dared to go to Azkaban and ask my father directly, he'd laugh and ask me if my head was full of mud."
She remained silent and as they looked into each other's eyes, Draco could see that she didn't seem to find any part of what he'd just said humorous.
It was just unfortunate that it was true.
His parents would never have performed this sort of spell on him unless the adjoining witch was a Pureblood, too.
Madam Rosmerta walked up, waving her wand to set their plates in front of them. She was all smiles and light, a vast difference in her attitude towards him so far this school year. Draco wasn't sure if it was real, but he wasn't complaining. He was sick of being stared at like he was going to rip up his sleeve and call the Dark Lord back from the grave.
Draco began to cut his steak, and then he took a bite. It was delicious, exactly the way he liked it. He took another bite, glancing across the table at Hermione. Much to his pleasure, she was tucking in with zeal. In fact, she was eating faster than he was.
"You know," he said after swallowing a mouthful, "I'd think you really liked your food if it weren't for that sour expression on your face."
Her upper lip curled. "Yeah, well, I'm suddenly not in the best of moods."
Something in her tone made Draco's head pull back on his shoulders. It was curt and dripping with acid. Had he said something wrong? Or was she just now realizing he wasn't the person she should be spending time with?
They ate the rest of their food in complete silence, the air between them frigid. Draco could feel the gazes of the majority of the establishment's patrons on them, watching them. It made everything worse. At least before, they were laughing and enjoying each other's company. Now, it just looked like a bad date.
Right as Madam Rosmerta brought over the check, Hermione pulled a coin purse out of her coat pocket. She dropped some galleons on the table and then got up.
"Where are you off to?" he asked, both him and Rosmerta looking at her.
"To the loo," she snapped, and then she stormed off.
"Oh, my," Rosmerta said, giving Draco a wide-eyed look. "What'd you say to brass her off?"
Draco hadn't the slightest clue.
Ignoring Hermione's galleons, he paid for both meals and both Butterbeers with his own funds. He knew he should be a bit more careful with his money, given that his father was the only one who could access the vaults and grant him more until he was twenty-one. He was running low, but there was no way on Godric's green Earth that he was speaking to his father unless he absolutely had to.
But he wasn't going to take Hermione to lunch and make her pay.
When she came back, she frowned at her galleons.
"You paid?"
"Of course I did," he said, shrugging back into his coat. "Who do you think I am?"
She didn't reply, her brow still furrowed as she gathered up her galleons and shoved them back into her pocket.
"You ready?" he said.
"Yes," and then she headed for the door.
Draco fell in-step behind her right as she stumbled. He supposed he should have expected it, given that the witch was always staggering and fainting about, but he was too busy glowering at the students that were watching them leave. He knew by now that something was seriously wrong with her. So, when she stumbled forward and nearly pitched face-first into the door of the restaurant, he had to be lightning fast.
She let out a gasp. He saw her flying forward.
Quick as a flash, his arm was around her midriff and his other hand was gripping her elbow, holding her up. His heart pounding at how close she'd come to slamming her face into the wood, he dipped his head down near her ear.
"All right?"
"I'm fine," she said, sounding breathless as she placed her hands on his forearm, beneath her chest. "I just tripped over . . . A loose floorboard, or something."
Just then, the door opened and a group of Fourth Years traipsed in, trailing snow behind them. Draco, with his arm still around her middle, drew them both to the side so the girls could get by.
One of the witches looked up at him, in the process of saying something to the group. Her gaze fell down to meet the much-shorter Hermione's, and then finally settled upon his arm and the way Hermione's hands were gripping it.
Oh, shite, was all he had time to think before the girl was practically shrieking into the Three Broomsticks.
"Oh, my Godric! Are you two dating?!"
Everyone—everyone—turned to ogle them again, as though they'd just transformed into Veelas. Hermione pulled herself out of his grasp faster than he could blink and shoved her way out into the snow. Draco followed after her, shaking his head.
"With any luck, that'll make it back to the Weaselbee by supper," he said as he caught up to her on the sidewalk. They were heading for the town gates.
"Lucky for me, but not for you, hm?" Her tone had returned to its former acidity. "Everyone will think you're playing in the mud."
He slowed to a complete halt, coincidentally right next to the alley that he and Theo had seen Ron and Gregoria in all those weeks ago. She stopped, turning to look at him with an annoyed expression.
"Aren't you coming?"
"Is this about what I said regarding my parents?"
She averted her eyes and shoved her hands into her pockets. The snow was falling around them, but the sky was a light grey that made her skin look uncharacteristic in its paleness. The flakes gathered in the dips and divots of her curls. By the look on her face, he could tell that she was angry.
"So, what if we are bonded?" she asked in a hiss, and then she took a step toward him so she could lower her volume. There was no one on the sidewalk with them, as they kept stepping off to get around them, but there were students everywhere. "What if you happen to be star bonded with a Mudblood? Then what? Do we accept the bond or break it?"
He flinched at the word. He hated hearing it, even though he'd said it himself countless times. The reminder of who he used to be combined with the reminder of the toxicity of his bloodline made him want to be sick.
"Ask yourself that," he said, taking a few steps toward her until they were only a yard away from one another. "The issue doesn't lie with me. Do you want to be bonded with me? What will you do? Embrace it or deny it?"
She looked down the alleyway, her expression still troubled.
"I'll find a way to cope until we can discover a way to break it or reverse it. And until then, we need to find a way to put some distance between us. Because with most marriage bonds, sex is what completes the magic. Then, it's forever and I can't imagine a forever with you."
Her words hurt. They hurt like stones to the flesh or a knife to the heart, and he knew why.
Because he fancied her.
He fancied her and he wanted to take care of her and be there for her and do whatever he could to make her happy. And it didn't feel like a star bond or bonding magic of any kind. It felt real. It felt like they'd gone from tearing each other's throats out to caring about one another in a matter of hours. It felt like . . .
It had happened overnight.
He fixed her with an accusatory glare that could have melted the snow in her hair. "You say that like you think I want to fuck you."
She didn't shrink back. In fact, she straightened her shoulders and stood up as tall as she could.
"Forgive me for thinking you're all the same."
All the same.
The same as who?
His memory flashed images in front of him. The Eiffel Tower. A walk made up of bricks. Fingernails scrabbling against them for purchase.
And she's got every right to think that.
But that's just not me.
It can't be.
"We're not all the same," he growled, moving towards her. Her eyes went wide and she moved backward, hitting the corner of the building beside the Three Broomsticks. She moved to her right, into the alley. "And while I understand that it may be difficult for you to see that, it doesn't give you the right to go applying that mentality to me out loud. I'm not like him."
She continued to back away, her feet crunching in the snow. Her expression was vitriolic.
"I have every right to apply whatever mentality I want to any man who looks at me and thinks I in any way, shape, or form belong to him."
"I never said that."
"No, you didn't," she said. "You made it clear that you can think of nothing worse."
He stopped walking, but she wasn't done talking.
"And that storm you feel? The one that's grey mixed with colors you can't fathom? I feel it, too." She tilted her head back and to the side as she looked up into his eyes, searching them for whatever it was she was hoping to find. "If we're feeling the exact—same—thing, then I know exactly what you want. And that's what scares you. The fact that in spite of who I am and in spite of what your parents might think, you still want me."
Her hand snapped out to wrap around the lapel of his pea coat, the suddenness of her movement causing him to jump. She yanked, and he stumbled forward as she moved. Her back hit the wall and his hands slammed against the bricks beside her head to keep himself from crushing her.
"The bond is real, Draco. And it doesn't matter how cowardly you are or aren't. It doesn't matter what your father thinks. It doesn't matter what you think. I feel what you've beenfeeling. I'm in your dreams just like I'm inside of you, and there's nothing you can do about it. Someone bonded us together. You are bonded to a Mudblood. So, I know exactly what you want to do to me. It's too bad you're too scared to kiss me."
Draco couldn't remember ever feeling so angry in his entire life, yet so, so alive. Every part of his body felt like it had burst into flames. The storm he'd grown so accustomed to was there, filling him to the brim, but it all seemed to pale in comparison to his thoughts.
Yes.
He did know what he wanted to do to her.
Draco's lips descended upon her own, his mouth covering hers and pulling her into a kiss that drowned like the tides. She gasped into it, maybe from shock or something else, and his tongue delved into her mouth with abandon. He kissed her like he'd never wanted to do anything else, turning his head so he could deepen it into something that stole her breath.
He grabbed both sides of her face to hold it in place as he snogged her, pressing his entire body against hers and pinning her to the wall. He felt like he was trying to tell her with his tongue that he would never hurt her. To whisper with his lips that he did want her, and that that was the problem.
Her felt her hands pushing against his chest, hard. He moved back, their lips coming apart with a loud smack, punctuated by their breathless panting. They stared at each other, silver irises meeting honey-brown, and she looked frightened.
"What's wrong with you?" she said, sounding livid. "What the bloody Hell is wrong with you? Do you know how dangerous that is? If you test the boundaries—"
Test the boundaries.
That meant there were boundaries to test.
His mind went white. He grabbed her by the chin and surged forward, bending to kiss her lips again. He was neither sweet nor slow, finding that his desire was spurned only by passion and possessive need. Because he wanted to test the boundaries.
They were his to test.
The moment his other hand braced itself against the wall again, something seemed to shift within her. To break apart, ice melting into a sigh that entered his mouth from the cavern of her own. She threw her arms around his neck, hoisting herself up on tip-toe as she kissed him back with double the energy he was giving her. The storm in his body retracted to the pit of his stomach, where it condensed into the solid heaviness of fervor.
Kissing her felt right.
She shoved him back again and he felt her hand lifting. She was going to try and slap him.
Again.
He snatched her wrist out of the air and gave her a glare that sent a shiver rolling through her body.
"If you slap me again, Hermione, we're gonna have problems."
The fire in her eyes died out in an instant, becoming replaced with the shyness of who she was: a teenage girl snogging a boy in Hogsmeade. Her hand curled into a fist and he felt the muscle in her forearm flex as she did so. She tried to pull her arm out of his grasp, but he held tighter. Her head lowered, chin tucking towards her chest.
He dipped his head down, chasing after her and brushing his nose against hers.
"Because if we start having problems," he breathed, trailing kisses along her jawline that caused her to suck in her breath, "then we can't kiss like this." The tip of his tongue traced the shell of her ear, and she jolted, barely managing to stifle a cry in the lapel of his coat. "And I can't make you feel good."
"Draco," she said, and it was a whimper. Her back arched as he kissed down the side of her neck. "Draco, w-wait, I—"
He found her pulse and laved his tongue against it, the gentleness in direct juxtaposition to the way that he'd devoured her mouth. She buried her face in his coat to hide the sound that left her lips—the sound that made Draco's head spin and all of the screws holding his faculties together come loose.
He turned his head. She turned hers to meet him. Their lips came together again and again, his low murmurs of how soft her skin was and how sweet she sounded crashing against the keening sighs that rose to greet him. In a few moments, it wouldn't matter that it was the middle of the day and this was an alley, he was going to grab her by the back of the thighs and—
This is an alleyway.
We're in a fucking alleyway, and I'm trying to . . .
Salazar, fuck.
He was in a brick alley, shoving his tongue down her throat, practically forcing her to kiss him when she clearly didn't want to. He wasn't listening to her body's cues. He was making himself into someone who was just as bad as the man in Paris.
How dare he think any more of himself than exactly what he was?
Draco used his hand on the wall above her to push himself away. He tilted his head back, gasping for breath as he fought with his own body. Fought against the raging torrent that swirled in his abdomen. He looked down at her again, moving backward as she began to fret with her hair. Her eyes were wild, bewildered—like she was suffering.
"I'm not scared to kiss you," he said, his voice hoarse from the kiss. "I'm scared I'll hurt you. There's a difference."
When she met his gaze, the look of combined fear and lack of control in her eyes wrenched his heart in his chest.
"You wouldn't be scared unless there was something I should be scared of. Get away from me." She stepped forward, and he moved away from her. "This is exactly why we need to keep our distance. Now that we're both aware of what we're experiencing, I can tell it's only going to get harder to maintain decorum from here. And I'm telling you right now, Draco—I want to maintain it."
She brushed past him, towards the sidewalk.
He scowled, scraping his fingers backward through his hair. "Well, do you want me to at least walk you back to the castle?"
"No," she said over her shoulder. "Go write to your father. I'm going to speak with Minerva."
It was his turn to feel afraid.
He didn't want to write to his father.
The moment she rounded the corner, Draco realized with sinking clarity what she had done in the Three Broomsticks when they were talking about calories and weight. And she'd done it with the smooth grace of the Slytherin she really should have been.
She'd deflected.
