Apricity – Chapter Eighteen
Blaise brought him weed on Monday.
Draco was grateful for it, given the stressful circumstances his life had fallen into. He felt like he'd tripped and toppled headfirst into a pit made of bonding magic. It pulled him down deeper with every breath he took. He was tired of being unable to breathe.
He'd rather suffocate with smoke in his lungs.
That weekend, Draco had left the dorm for meals, but for the most part, he lounged on the couch to read and nap all weekend. Hermione left the common room in the morning and didn't return until the late evening, so he assumed she was working on Head duties, starting her holiday coursework, and visiting with friends. She certainly didn't say a word to him when she was in his presence.
Being apart from her wasn't pleasant.
She hadn't come into his dreams, and when he'd fallen asleep, he'd felt like his consciousness tried to go into her mind, but couldn't find a way in. He'd woken several times in a cold sweat, feeling confused that no one was in his arms. Then, he'd felt stupid because she'd only slept in his bed twice.
Had he really thought it was going to become commonplace?
And he'd laid there, staring at the ceiling in the moonlit room, with the ghost of her lips against his own. He felt her absence like a physical wound, a gaping hole in his psyche. When he thought about keeping his distance from her, it felt like he was tearing it wider and shoving his heart into its depths.
This wasn't normal, so thank fucking Salazar Blaise brought the weed when he did.
"I'd say thank you, but you owe me a lot more than this," Draco said, glancing up from his breakfast porridge.
Blaise stood across the table from him, still bundled in his coat, hat, and scarf. In one hand, he had a black suitcase by the handle. The other was empty, him having just tossed the plastic bag onto the table. It had landed in front of Draco's plate.
"Don't remind me," Blaise said, setting the suitcase down. He slid into the bench, unlooping his scarf. "I'm tired of owing people things. But for what it's worth, I do feel poorly."
Draco scoffed. "Uh, well, you should. If it weren't for you helping Pansy's vindictive arse, then none of it would have happened. Granger can spot that shite from a kilometer away."
"I know," Blaise said, unbuttoning his coat. He shrugged out of it, ignorant of the Fifth Year Slytherin next to him who appeared disgruntled by the loose snow. "And that's why I came straight here. She was a nightmare in London this weekend. I have half a mind to ask if I can—"
"If you can smoke with me?" Draco gave him an incredulous look, spluttering a laugh. "Have you gone mental? You're sitting before me without a bruise around your eye by the grace of Salazar, Blaise. That's my weed."
For good measure, he snatched up the bag full of small green nuggets and slipped it into the front pocket of his black hooded jumper. A smirk graced his features, one that was reflected back at him.
"If I didn't adore how wicked you could be, I'd be miffed," Blaise said. He began to plate up a meal. "I suppose it's just as well. I got myself some of my own."
"Of course you did."
They shared a knowing look and then fell into easy conversation for a few minutes.
Blaise and Pansy had gone to Muggle London for the weekend for a nice dinner, some shopping, and a concert. Blaise had gotten another tattoo—this time on his calf—and had convinced Pansy to get a small one on the back of her shoulder. In spite of the good parts of their weekend date, Pansy had been in a sour mood and their bickering had been nonstop.
"I just don't think she realizes what she did," Blaise was saying as he buttered a muffin with a silver knife. "I mean, I don't know exactly what it was you and Granger experienced, but from what you said, it was bad, yeah?"
"Yeah." Draco sipped his coffee. It was black, the way he liked it, and the bitterness was apparent on his tongue. "It was bad."
"All right, then yeah. She doesn't seem to grasp the full effect." Blaise waved a dismissive hand. "I tried to explain it to her, but she can't see reason when she's like this."
"I don't understand any of it," Draco said. "She's going with you, so why would she have any reason to be envious of Granger? Pansy and I were hardly in a relationship."
Blaise started to reply, but then his brow furrowed so hard that it put a twitch to his eyebrows. "What makes you assume she's jealous of Granger because of you? You said you didn't fancy her."
Draco averted his eyes. It was starting to get difficult keeping this all in. The dreams, the sleepless nights, the bonding magic. But he didn't want to say anything about that until they'd finished their research and were certain.
"Well, Pansy'll have some idea of what's been going on when she hears the newest rumors." Draco grimaced. "Granger and I may or may not have been spotted snogging in the alley outside the Three Broomsticks."
It was true—everyone knew. They had been seen during their ridiculous argument and ensuing snog session. By the time he went to dinner that same night, the entire school knew. He'd walked into the Great Hall without any idea why a sea of eyes were staring back at him until he sat down at the Slytherin table beside an uncharacteristically quiet Theo.
An uncharacteristically quiet Theo who ate with the speed of lightning and then left without so much as a word.
And when Draco had watched him go with a frown, he'd been stunned to see every Gryffindor Eighth Year student glaring directly at him. His gaze had then slid to Hermione, who was picking at a salad while staring at the tabletop, and it clicked for him.
At Saturday's lunch, he was asked a total of four times by younger Slytherins whether Hermione Granger tasted like dirt, and he had to leave the room before he beat the fuck out of a bunch of fourteen-year-olds.
Blaise said, "How fortunate that you two managed to alert the press two days before the Hogwarts Express takes everyone away for holiday. When does the train leave? Tonight during dinner? Fuck, Draco."
Draco shrugged his shoulders. "It's not as if I planned it!"
"How do you kiss someone without knowing you're gonna kiss them?"
"I dunno! You just do! It just happened."
Blaise stared at him for a long moment before something shifted in his eyes like the changing wind. "What did Weasley say?"
"Nothing. But you can see for yourself what he thinks. Look over there."
The Weaselbee was sitting at the Gryffindor table, flanked by Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas. No one sat across from them. All three boys were glowering in Draco and Blaise's general direction. The way they were stabbing their food with the tines of their forks was every bit as threatening as the flames of pure rage that burned in their eyes.
"It feels like we're going to have to watch your back for a bit, doesn't it?" Blaise said, turning back around with his eyebrows up. "Because that's . . . Well, that's something."
Draco wasn't the least bit nervous. Finnegan, Thomas, and the Weaselbee were the equivalent of dust mites floating in the air on a sunny day. He wasn't worried about them. They were more frightened of breaking the rules than he was, and the chance that they all attacked him was next to none.
If they came for him, however, he'd handle it.
"If they attack you, I'll come running, mate," Blaise said, flashing him a grin before he took a large bite of his muffin. "Three against one isn't fair odds at all."
Draco returned his smile with a lopsided one of his own and they resumed eating.
"So, what's up with Theo?" Blaise asked around a mouthful. "Are you two on the outs?"
Draco slowed the pace of his own chewing, his frown returning. He was surprised that whatever was happening between the two of them was noticeable to people who weren't aware of it.
"I'm not fucking sure," he said on a rush of exhalated breath. "He's . . . He's just not seeing eye-to-eye with me lately."
"Mm," Blaise said, nodding slowly. He gave Draco a worried look. "D'you think that maybe the war's got to him a little?"
Draco's head pulled back. The thought had never crossed his mind. Theo fought on the winning side, yes, but he'd surely experienced his own traumas and losses.
But it was difficult for Draco to see past the things that had happened to him. Taking the Mark, having a madman walking the halls of the Manor when his dreams were full of a Muggle-born witch, watching innocent Muggles die, watching his professors die, watching his friends die . . . The list went on.
It was difficult for Draco to understand why if he could overlook all of that—if he could set it aside to maintain a friendship with Theo—then why couldn't Theo accept the fact that there may or may not be something going on between him and Hermione?
Draco's throat went dry, the edges rubbing together like sandpaper.
What if Theo already kissed her before Draco did?
"Well," Blaise said, "you know he said something to me, right?"
Draco's heart fluttered in his chest, nearly to a stop. His gaze snapped to Blaise's, icy and alert. "What?"
"Yeah. It was last week. Er, no—maybe it was the week before?" He shook his head out. "Nevermind. It doesn't matter when it was. Or maybe it does. Okay, basically, I was in the Library and I saw Theo and Granger studying together. I was in there for a good twenty minutes looking for something for an essay, and it looked like they'd been in there a while and weren't leaving. So, naturally I went to sit with them for a spell and talk stories. They seemed like they got along quite well, which didn't seem so shocking to me given that they've been friends all along. And the war and everything. But there was something about the way he looked at her that got me thinking."
As Blaise spoke, Draco found that a well of dark emotion that he hadn't experienced before was starting to grow. Well, he'd experienced it multiple times over the course of the year, but it wasn't anything he'd felt envelop him quite like it was doing now. It was like a cavern of molten lava inside of him, and it was starting to boil. Fire was licking its way up to his eyes, which he knew blazed like twin infernos.
Blaise continued, "Well, she got up to get a different book—Salazar, this was . . . I'm fairly certain this was the last week of November, now that I think about it. Because they were working on an essay for Care of Magical Creatures, and when I asked them about it, she launched into a tirade against American Thanksgiving. Horrific holiday, by the way. Did you know . . . Never mind."
Draco set his fork down as though it were going to explode if he moved too fast. In a calm, quiet voice, he said, "What happened after she got up and left?"
"Oh, right. She was gone for a good two minutes or so, and I asked Theo outright. I said, 'Theo, what the bloody Hell is going on with you two? Because it looks like you fancy her.' You know what I mean? I mean, the way he was looking at her, and he had his hand on the back of her chair. He kept moving her hair out of her face, I mean . . . I was starting to get confused, you know what I—"
"Blaise," Draco growled, one anxious hand carding through his hair and tangling there. He sliced his other hand in the air in a small, curt motion. "Out with it."
"Yeah, yeah, sorry. I get carried away. Skipping ahead, I asked Theo if they were seeing one another. He said they weren't, but that he's interested in her and that she's a lot different than what you made her out to be when we were younger. And when I asked him if he was going to make a move, he said he already had. So, I asked him if he'd snogged her, or something, and he said not yet. But he said that she trusts him more than anyone else, and that he's the only person that she's told things to that she's never even told Weasley and Potter."
Not yet.
Not yet?
That meant that not only had Draco been right in his suspicion that Theo fancied her, but he'd also been right to feel uncomfortable with the idea. "Not yet" implied that Theo had intent to snog her. He wanted to kiss her. He had a plan to kiss her.
And he had every intention of carrying it out.
In Blaise's eyes, recognition dawned like a slow sunrise. "Oh."
"Oh?"
"Judging by the way you're grinding your teeth and trying to set a fire with your eyes . . . I'd say you're jealous."
"No, I'm not." Draco bristled. "Just tell me what—"
"Yes, you are. You're jealous." Blaise's grin was wide.
"No, I—"
"And that's okay." Blaise held his gaze. "It's okay. Don't give a fuck what anyone else says—it's okay. Better to focus on the fact that someone wants her, too, than to focus on keeping yourself and everyone else in a false state of denial."
The fire inside of Draco flared, nearly exploding.
Someone else wants her.
Someone better. Someone safer, who didn't make all the wrong choices. Someone who had a plan to win her over because they knew what they wanted and they were gonna stick to it. Someone who could offer her stability, safety, and the confidence to know he was going to go after what he wanted.
Theo and Hermione, holding hands in the halls. Theo and Hermione, curling up beside a warm fire. Theo taking Hermione to the Three Broomsticks. Theo pushing Hermione into an alcove to snog her, to kiss her on the spot beneath her ear that made her cry out. Theo tearing Hermione's clothes off and sinking into her—
No. We're bonded. The bond is real because I can feel it.
That wasn't right because—
Mine.
It didn't make sense because—
Mine.
That couldn't work because—
Hermione was his.
"Mate?" Blaise's voice broke into his turbulent, scorching-hot thoughts. "All right, then?"
"Did he say what the secret was? Whatever it is that she couldn't tell Potter and the Weasel?"
Blaise blinked, taken aback by his sudden vehemence. "No, he didn't. He only said it was something no one else knew."
"Well, before the end of the day," Draco bit out through clenched teeth, glaring at Hermione's distant face, "someone else is going to know it, too."
"Who?" Blaise said.
Her fucking wizard.
"Me."
"I got the book."
Hermione took a step to the left, out of the way of a group of Sixth Years bustling back from Hogsmeade. She was in the entryway of the castle, just beyond the courtyard, wearing naught but leggings and an oversized cream jumper. It looked like she'd been waiting a while.
Draco, who had just gotten back from a casual stroll to Honeydukes to buy a single chocolate frog, loomed over her. He'd skipped lunch to smoke some the weed in the dorm, and then went to Hogsmeade. It had begun to snow on the walk back, so his face felt numb in several places and the hand of his that wasn't holding the Honeydukes bag was shoved as deep into his coat pocket as it could go.
He was also high as fuck.
"What happened to 'hello'?" he drawled. "'How are you?' What happened to that?"
She rolled her eyes. "I got the book, Draco!"
"What?" he said, stifling a laugh. "You might as well tell me you found the one loose hair from quadrant four on your head that you'd been looking for, Granger. This is you we're talking about."
She gaped at him for a moment. "No, I—Don't be so vile! I meant the book we were looking for. About ancient marriage bonds. Madam Pince ordered it for me because the Hogwarts library didn't have it in stock. She says she's got it now, so I'm going to go pick it up."
"What about McGonagall? You said you were going to talk to her."
"Oh, I . . . I ended up not saying anything to her."
"Why?"
She looked away. "If she thought we might have bonding magic cast on us, she would separate us. One of us would have to leave the dorm. I didn't . . . I don't want that."
"All right," he said, tone nonchalant as he forced away mental images of himself with his hands all over her. "Let's go."
". . . Go?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "I was just going to go pick it up and suggest we meet in the common room."
"Nah, I'll come with you," he said, walking forward until he was beside her.
She hesitated for a moment, and then they set off together. It wasn't far and he knew they were going to have to pass the entrance to the Great Hall, but there was something inside of him that was telling him he needed to be near her. He would keep his distance as much as he could, but there couldn't be any harm in friendly gestures, could there?
Bonus points if Theo happened to be in the Great Hall for dinner tonight and saw them walk past.
He slung his arm around her neck, the nearly twelve-inch difference in their heights exactly perfect for it to look careless yet intentional.
"Draco," she said, sounding angry. "What are you on about?"
"Nothing," he said, glancing into the Great Hall. It was full to the brim with students waiting for the Hogwarts Express to pull in and take them away from Scotland for holiday. When it did, he knew they would start filing out the doors.
He was taller than most everyone, but he couldn't discern where anyone was. He hoped Theo saw and if he didn't, oh well. Draco would keep this memory for himself.
Hermione scowled and reached up to shove his arm off of her. He flexed his muscles a bit, keeping her from being able to do so.
"I told you distance," she hissed. "This doesn't look very friendly, and I know you know the entire bloody school saw us in the alley. Don't act like you don't."
"What, your friends don't put their arms around you?" Draco smirked as he looked down at her through his lashes.
"No," she said, tone icy. "Well . . . They do. But none of them are potentially bonded with me to ancient stars, Draco. None of them cause a storm of raging desire for consummation."
He pulled her closer and, as they rounded the corner, he leaned down to whisper into her ear.
"You're telling me my arm around you causes you to want me? Is that what you're saying?"
A shiver ran through her body, one that Draco felt against his side. She spun out of his hold, moving away from him.
"I'm fairly certain we are bonded. It's not even a potential. And just because you can self-flagellate for five years doesn't mean I can. I want to figure out what's going on."
Draco opened his mouth to retort, but she was already walking into the Library. He sighed and dropped his head back in frustration. This was a nightmare.
What if she wanted to figure out how to undo the bond simply because she wanted to be with Theo?
Another thought came to mind. One that sobered him.
If they were bonded, then neither of them had consented. And if it was somehow his fault that they were linked, then he really was no better than the man in Paris.
Was he?
If he wasn't so fucking high, he'd probably stand and contemplate that for a while.
When he entered the Library, he saw Madam Pince walking around the front desk to personally hand the book to Hermione. The two women were smiling, talking in amiable tones, and Draco lingered back. He didn't have the energy to deal with seeing the light of good nature leaving the librarian's eyes. He was still waiting for the other shoe to drop with Madam Rosmerta's sudden change in personality.
Hermione thanked Madam Pince and then headed down through the stacks. Draco followed her, carefully avoiding the front desk and weaving his way through other shelves to cut off Hermione's path. When he reached her, she had to slap a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out in alarm.
"You terrified me!" she whispered, smacking him on the arm with the book.
"My bad," he said with a lazy grin. "Where are you going?"
"To an alcove. I don't think anyone else is gonna come in here tonight, but just in case. I don't want anyone overhearing this. It's a wonder no one told the Prophet or Rita Skeeter about our kiss in Hogsmeade."
He followed after her until they found an alcove that was secluded enough. This one had no window, but it had a table with two chairs and a floor lamp. There was an empty portrait on the stone wall.
Draco entered first, followed by Hermione. When she was in, she pulled out her wand and cast a series of silencing and Disillusionment spells. He quirked an eyebrow at her, fighting back the urge to laugh.
"It's just to be safe," she said. "Just in case anyone walks by or draws near while we're talking."
"No wonder you survived so long Seventh Year," he muttered. "Potter and Weaselbee would be dead without you."
He saw a hint of red staining her cheeks as she took a seat and set the book down. "It pays to be careful."
Draco pulled his coat off and tossed it onto a conjured coat rack in the corner of the alcove. Then, he tugged the hood on his jumper up to cover the back of his head, pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, and sat down in the chair beside hers.
"What're you looking at, Granger?" he said, eyes half-shut. His head swam with a pleasant buzzing.
"You're wearing a hoodie," she said with a perturbed expression. "It's weird to see."
"A hooded jumper? It's not that weird."
"Yes, it is. It's so Muggle."
"Granger. I'm covered in tattoos done by a Muggle tattoo artist. D'you think I care what is and isn't Muggle any longer?"
She didn't answer him, and he was reminded about their misunderstanding in the Three Broomsticks. His heart stuttered with a small measure of sadness. He needed to make that right.
"Let's just get started," Hermione said, cracking open the book. She scanned the Table of Contents. "Here we go—star bonds."
Draco sat in silence, sliding down so far in his seat that his mother would have smacked the back of his head for poor posture. Legs outstretched, hood on, tattooed arms crossed—he knew he looked like the antithesis of a Pureblood wizard. He couldn't help but feel a laugh spinning in his chest.
What would his mother say if she could see him now?
"Okay, I think . . ." Hermione said, and then she stopped herself. She held up one finger, eyes still scanning the pages. "I think I've got the gist of the section. I'm gonna read it more in-depth and then I'll let you read it this week, but from what I see here, there's not actually any such thing as a 'soulmate' bond. It's a euphemism."
"All right." He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and cracking his right-hand knuckles absentmindedly with his left hand. Her scent was faint, but he was so close to her that he could smell her perfume. "So, then what is it really called?"
"Just a binary star bond," she said, turning the page. "And it's done via a ritual that usually involves blood, the moon, and at least one bondee. So, one person has to be present. The moon has to be full for it to work, and the binary stars have to be visible. And then there's more about how the bond presents—sort of, specifics and whatnot—but Draco . . . No one cast this sort of spell on me. I know that for a fact."
They exchanged glances. It was clear that neither had any idea when this bond could have taken place.
But the last time they were in the Library, Draco had had that outburst. The one that felt like something inside of his head that was trying to get out. The one that felt like Legilimency.
"What if," he murmured, gazing down at the book, "someone performed the ritual with me, and then obliviated me?"
"It's feasible," she said, pushing her curls behind her ears with one hand so the book didn't fall shut. "Who would have done such a thing?"
"I have no idea," he said. "But why don't we worry about it later. You said there's specifics?"
"Yes," she said, refocusing on the book. "The section is rather large—it's about twenty pages long. Like I said, we'll each need to read it. But . . ." She turned a few more pages, skimming the passages. "Ah! Right here, this section talks about how exactly the bond manifests once initiated. So, remember how I said that in the past, the parents of two families would bond their children together as part of arranged marriages?"
He nodded, giving her a slow blink. Listening to her talk while high was a feat in and of itself. She was so pretty, he just kept staring at her nose.
It was the cutest nose he'd ever seen.
"Okay, well the book we found last time also said that the bond had to be initiated, to awaken, or whatever it said." She waved her hand. "It says here in this book that after the bonding ritual is performed, the bond can be initiated immediately. It looks like parents used the bond when they were younger, but then initiated it in their own ways later."
"How's a bond initiated?"
"It says through the touching of skin. Back then, likely a simple holding of hands."
Draco tried to wade through his hazy thoughts, massaging his temples with his forefingers. "But I started showing symptoms in Third Year. You started showing symptoms a month ago, when I gave you the cake."
Hermione sighed. "We'll know when we read more in-depth, I think. In this particular section, it only says when the bond is initiated, there are three levels to the magic that push the bondees together. These aren't the official names of those levels, but it seems like they're named by the author of the book. I figured for right now, we can focus on that."
"Levels?" His brows twitched upward. He was following along, but barely.
Circe, she had the longest, most slender neck. He hadn't left bruises on it yet. Perhaps he should, if she ever let him kiss her again.
What would Theo think of that?
"First one, they write that it's called 'The Awakening. The bonding magic awakens the desire for completion in each bondee. The bondee will feel incomplete, restless, and sickly until they can activate the next level.' So—"
"I get it, I get it," Draco muttered. "Something happens to make us realize we're missing something. Keep reading."
He saw the pulse in her throat jump. "Er—right. Okay, so the second one . . . 'The Draw. This is what occurs when the bondees have both metaphorically accepted the bond. Both have fully awakened and will now be inexplicably drawn toward one another. During this time, the symptoms will increase, new symptoms may arise, and the feeling of incompleteness will intensify.' Does it feel like that for you?"
"For the most part, yes."
"For the most part?"
Draco rested his temple against his fist and shrugged. He was so high he was floating in that limbic space between tired and way too energetic. "It feels a little different lately, but that's been recent. I'd say this year was when I moved away from whatever 'level one' feelings would be like. It was fainter, and then it wasn't. And now, it's intense."
She frowned and turned back to the book. "The third level is called the Consummation, and I think that's pretty self-explanatory. It says the symptoms increase and intensify to unavoidable levels. 'The end goal is for the bond to be completed—or, consummated. Once the bond is consummated, it is indestructible. The bondees' destinies will be intertwined for the rest of their lives. Nothing short of the deaths of both stars they're bonded to will destroy the bond. Nothing short of that, or the death of one bondee.'" Her voice trailed off into a soft whisper. "'If one bondee passes away, so too will the other. The magic is as eternal as flame."
It would burn until there was nothing left to fuel it.
Silence stretched between them like worn, thin linen.
Draco wasn't stupid, and he wasn't too out of his mind to understand what was going on. They were bonded. They had to be—the symptoms were too spot on. Dreamwalking alone was proof.
But eternity was an awfully long time.
"What do you feel?" Draco asked, scratching his head before returning to rest his temple against his fist again. "In regard to all of this."
She chewed on her lower lip for a moment, propping her chin in her hand while she thought. The more time passed, the more her facial expression changed. She grew less relaxed, more fidgety. She worried her lip between her teeth more, and she shifted in her seat.
"Come on, Granger," he said with a sigh. "We have to be as frank as possible. Otherwise, we're not gonna be able to figure this out."
"Third level," she mumbled, her words as quick as flitting sparrows. "For me."
Third level.
That meant that she . . . That she wanted to . . .
Conflicted emotions arose within him. Part of him wanted to reach for her immediately. Another part—the part that was dripping with shame—didn't want to trap her in any alleyways ever again.
Because he felt the same as her.
"Okay," Draco said, moving to rest his cheek against his fist instead. "So, if it took me five years to get to this point and it took you less than a month to jump through to the third level . . . What's different between us, and what's the same about our situations?"
"That's what we have to figure out," she said, and she looked worried.
He laughed a little. "Don't look so terrified. I know it's a nightmare, but I'm not the worst person you could be bonded to. It could be McLaggen."
She wrinkled her nose and then lowered her head. Her hands rested in her lap, where he saw her toying with her fingernails.
"I'm concerned," she said. "We're closer to answers, but no closer to figuring out how to reverse it. And sometimes, it's overwhelming."
"Tch." Draco knew all about that. The grey storm had become his only constant, all through the war.
And it was painful.
"But I . . . I don't know if you felt this way, but when we kissed, I think I—I think I felt a bit better. At least, for a little while." She turned her head to look at him, but he didn't move. "Did you feel the same?"
Her words sunk into the ink of his subconscious, jolting him forward through the weed haze. He laughed, incredulous and confused.
"Wait . . . What? Like, what?"
Her mouth tilted down at the corners. "I felt like the storm became easier to bear after we kissed. The reprieve didn't last for long, but it helped me through until Sunday."
He rubbed his right eye with the heel of his palm, still laughing. It was absurd. It sounded like she was trying to lead the conversation down a dangerous path. One he hadn't expected, but had no qualms against.
"What's wrong with you?" she said.
"What?" He dragged his eyes up to meet hers. "Nothing."
"Yes, there is. There's something wrong with you."
"There's nothing." He breathed a laugh. "Fuck, you're perceptive."
She narrowed her eyes, studying him like a puzzle. Her gaze flitted about his face, moving the pieces around until the picture was clear.
"Draco, are you high?"
He didn't know why, but he felt his stomach flopping with a sudden burst of nerves. It wasn't likely that she'd report him to McGonagall, but there was always the risk with Hermione Granger. Little swot would have run straight to the Headmaster if they were younger.
"Yes, you are," she said, and then she gestured to her throat. "Your voice is . . . It's different. It's more rough and scratchy. Hoarser than normal." She gave him a searing glare and hissed, "What is it? What did you take? Did you smoke it or inject it?"
"What the fuck?" he said through a burst of laughter that rolled through his belly. "What the fuck, Granger?!"
"Stop making fun of me!" She punched him in the upper arm, causing him to clutch his bicep and laugh harder. "I need to make sure you're okay!"
"Salazar, fuck!" He shook his head, unable to stop laughing. "No, no—shh. It's not a big deal!"
"What did you take?" she shrieked, apparently remembering that she'd cast silencing spells and could be as loud as she wanted to.
"It's just weed!" he cried, laughter attacking him like a full-frontal war assault. He held up his hands, reaching for her jumper. "No, seriously—it's just weed. I smoked before I left for Hogsmeade."
The color of her rage faded from her face, leaving suspicion in its wake. "Just . . . Marijuana?"
"Yes. Now, quit acting like a mother hen and sit the fuck down. Fuck." He tugged on the hem of her jumper and she stumbled, collapsing back into her seat. "And stop pouting."
"I didn't know you smoked weed," she muttered. "It's not exactly legal."
"For Muggles, in some places."
"You aren't allowed to take any substances at Hogwarts—even Muggle ones," she quipped. "We're not even supposed to drink alcoholic Butterbeers on castle grounds."
"Yeah, and since when are the words 'not' and 'allowed' ever in the same sentence for me? Whose vocabulary do you think I live by?"
"Clearly, your own," she muttered, looking down at the marriage bond book again. "You act like a child."
"No, I don't," he said, tsking. "I'm eighteen. I act eighteen."
"Yes, a teenage boy. A child."
"That makes you a child, too. You're eighteen."
"I'm almost nine months older than you, Draco."
"Still eighteen, though."
"Stop snipping at me."
"No."
"I mean it!" Her head whipped in his direction with a glare that would have unsettled anyone who wasn't him.
Draco merely smirked and kept looking at her from beneath eyes that were almost completely closed. "No."
"Ugh, you're impossible." She glared at him. "I was trying to tell you that I think keeping our distance might not be the best idea. I mean, for the most part we should, but I think our kiss in Hogsmeade tricked the bond for a short time."
Oh, abso-fucking-lutely.
"So, what?" he said, voice as rough as gravel. "You wanna snog every other day to keep it calm?"
"Yes." Her tone was matter-of-fact, her gaze glued to the book. "I think for the purposes of the magic and keeping it from being quite so unbearable, we should. Not right now, but maybe tonight."
"So clinical." His lips spread into a cheeky grin. "Should I schedule time with you?"
"No. It doesn't have to be so . . . Dramatic." She gave him a once-over. "That's your forte. I'd rather it be natural, as long as you remember it serves a purpose. Don't just be leaning over and snogging me in the Great Hall."
"Always have to control everything, don't you?" he purred. "Maybe let me handle this one, yeah?"
"Fine," she whispered, eyebrows raised in irritation. She turned a page over.
"Yeah?"
"Yes. Now, leave me be."
She scowled and said nothing more, returning to her reading. He watched her for a minute, wondering to himself what exactly she thought about all this bonding shite. She didn't want to be bonded to him, that much was certain, but he wondered if that was simply because it was a marriage bond.
What if she fancied him outside of the bond?
What if she fancied Theo?
His mood darkened for a moment and something stirred within him. Some dark and viscous emotion that felt like it was searing his skin from the inside out. Something simultaneously playful and possessive. Like a werewolf.
He placed his temple against his fist again. A slow smirk spread across his face as his gaze danced all over her face.
She'd said tonight.
She hadn't said when tonight.
"Granger."
"What do you want, Malfoy?"
"You pay attention to my voice?"
He saw her shoulders jump as though he'd hexed her. She turned a page in the book rather quick, nearly tearing it. He saw her cheeks reddening again, but the expression on her face was one of indifference. She didn't say anything.
But her hands trembled.
That dark, possessive thing inside of him curled and uncurled, reaching for her. Calling to her. It twisted low in his abdomen, alive and dying all at once.
Yeah, he wasn't waiting.
Draco reached out with his free hand and slid it behind her back, his fingers tickling her spine. She went stiff as he grabbed her right hip and dragged her to the left edge of her chair. The side of her left leg pressed against the side of his right. If he were to move, she might topple over.
"What're you—"
"Tell me," he drawled, his hand sliding up to her waist. He felt the dip of it through the thick cable knit of her jumper. "You like my voice? Is that it?"
She turned her head to look up at him, and she was so close he could see the flecks of hazel smattered amongst the chocolate of her irises. She started to speak, but the words seemed to be choked off by a small laugh. A laugh of nervousness, or incredulity. Of trepidation.
The predator in Draco devoured it.
"When do you like it best?" he murmured, his thumb twitching, pressing into her back. "When I'm here, talking to you like this?"
She averted her eyes and in the golden light of the lamp, he could see her flush mingling with the shadows the light cast across her face. Her voice was trapped in her throat behind a cage that he wanted to unlock.
He liked her voice, too.
Draco's hand smoothed down again, down to her hip. He pulled—fought the urge to yank—and she gasped. She lifted from the chair with ease, falling against him with her hands flat against his chest. Her cloudlike curls filled the lower half of his face, soft as satin as he inhaled the scent of her shampoo. Something floral, he noted. She shifted, perhaps to try and get more comfortable, what with her sitting astride his lap the way she was. It brought her ear right to his mouth, which tipped up into a half of a smirk.
"Or do you like it best when I'm whispering sweet things into your ear?"
He ended the sentence with a nip of his teeth to her earlobe. Her back arched and a shudder rolled through her body like an ocean wave. Her finger wrapped around the right drawstring of his hooded jumper, twisting it around and around like it felt good. Like the repetitive motions distracted her or kept her grounded.
Draco lifted his right hand and used it to brush her hair back. He swept the curls behind her ear little-by-little, until he had a perfect view of her ear, side profile, and the left side of her throat. The pads of his fingers brushed along the backside of her earlobe, a barely-there touch, and he saw her eyelids flutter. Her head tilted ever-so-slightly to the right, like she was trying to encourage him without saying it.
Like she was too scared to ruin the moment, lest she panic and change her mind.
"Maybe it's not how I say it," he said, his gaze swallowing the sight of her pounding pulse leaping towards him. His fingers delved deep into her curls and curled tight enough to make his desire known. Tight enough for her to know how he felt. "Maybe it's what I say."
He leaned forward, his lips moving slow and sure to meet the sharp line of her jaw. As he began to kiss down to that fluttering pulse point, his left hand found its way to her outer thigh, pulling her closer.
By the time his tongue was darting out to lap at her trembling skin, she was limp in his arms and sighing. Her chest heaved. Her fingers were clenched around both drawstrings. Her thighs were pressing against one another like disrupted parts of the Earth's surface.
That dark, possessive thing inside of him clenched and forced a gasp of his own from his throat. It intensified his kiss, turning it from gentle to sensual, tentative to scorching. His teeth scraped, biting as though he wanted to taste her blood, and his tongue swept over the indentations in her skin to soothe the sting.
She let out a soft, strangled cry.
Draco felt whatever walls were holding him upright come crashing down at the erotic noise. His mind went as dark as the pit of his stomach and he gripped her curls as tight as he could without hurting her. He kissed his way back up to her ear, his other hand cupping the untouched side of her throat.
"Is that it?" he growled into her ear, causing her to lean closer to him and her shoulder to lift as though it tickled. "You like the things I say to you? You like it when I tell you how soft you are, how sweet you sound?"
"Draco," she gasped, her head falling back. She sounded dazed. Shocked. Like what he was saying was every bit as scandalous as it was. Like she wanted to hear more of it. "I—it's—too much."
Fuck.
He gave her earlobe a lewd, targeted lick and she moaned so loud that he almost forgot she'd cast muffliato when they entered the alcove.
Draco's mind reeled with how high the heat of his body had risen. All of the blood in his veins was flowing South, hurtling to where he could feel her bottom nestled in his lap. He kissed every bit of skin on her throat that he could get to and then his lips brushed hers. They shared each other's breath as he held her head exactly where he wanted it.
Her eyes were as bright as stars.
"How would you like it if I told you that you were mine?" he breathed hoarsely, searching her eyes. "Huh? How would you like it if I told you that's what this bond means? That you're mine to kiss, to hold, to touch, to fuck."
Something broke in her eyes, something that made his heart wrench into a tiny knot in his chest. It coiled so tight that it hurt him. Behind those broken pieces, he saw her imagining it. Tasting it. Thinking of what it would be like to give in and accept the bond.
"Would you hurt me?" she whispered, her voice trembling the way it always did before she cried. "Would you hurt me, like he did?"
"Fuck." The expletive escaped him. "No, Hermione. Never."
He didn't want to think about it, but he knew that's all she got to do, was think about it. It was in her dreams and in her nightmares and in her thoughts. That pain was woven amongst every part of her life. There was no reprieve from it.
And then he saw it.
The last piece.
It disintegrated.
She wrapped one arm around his neck, placed the other on his cheek, and slanted her lips over his. She kissed him with fervent need, her lips moving against his with desperation that he knew mirrored his own. Her hips ground downward as she pulled her knees up, as though she were trying to make herself as small as possible on his lap.
All he needed to do was grab her thighs and lift her, turn her and pull her close. Their hips would slot together, a perfect fit. Because that's what the storm had been trying to tell him—the bond that they'd had all along. She was perfect for him, and she would fill all of his empty spaces.
He wanted her so badly.
Her tongue slipped into his mouth, pressing past the seam of his lips with a determination he hadn't thought she possessed. It coaxed his own tongue up to greet hers, where they caressed each other like meeting for the first time after millennia.
It made him groan, a bolt of desire reverberating from his loins.
His hands moved along the outside of her jumper, up her back, along her shoulders, and up to cup the sides of her face. Draco tilted his head to the side and kissed her back with all of the need he felt in his body. Every time their lips parted, he heard her whimper like she needed this kiss more than he did. Like she was the one consuming him.
And he was going to let her.
He felt her fingers sliding into his hair, fingernails scraping along his scalp. It was good—so good. Everything about her was good. His eyelids rolled behind his closed eyelids and he moaned. His voice was breathy, high-pitched.
"Did you like that?" she whispered against his mouth, and then she scratched wide circles on both sides of his scalp. His hood fell back.
"Yes," he said, his head falling back to rest on the chair back. "Fuck—yes."
"And this?"
He felt her rock her hips without stopping the gentle scraping of her nails. With her sitting sideways on him, the sensation going from left to right instead of back to front was enough to drag another sound out of him. Something akin to a keening whimper that he knew he'd never made before with anyone else. His fingers shifted up into her curls, twisting them around as he fought the urge to buck his hips upward.
And then she dipped her head down and ran her tongue along the chains tattooed at the base of his neck. Just licked them, like he was made of sugar. From one side to the other.
Stars burst behind his eyelids.
"Salazar . . . Fucking damn it." He whined, the words pinned down beneath his breath as he battled every fiber in his being that wanted him to rut up into her. "Merlin—ah. Please. Fuck. Fuck."
He didn't want to hurt her, or scare her. If she wanted the control, he would give it to her. But sweet Circe, he was as hard as a rock.
She kissed his lips again, mouth open as he moaned into her. He tugged on her hair, pulling her closer, increasing the pressure. His toes curled in his shoes. He wanted her so bad. So, so bad.
Suddenly, she jerked backward, a small sound of confusion sounding out. His eyes snapped open as worry bled through his lust and he lifted his head.
"Sorry," she said, closing her eyes. She shook her head a bit and then pulled her hand from his hair, holding it to her temple. "I'm sorry. I just . . . I haven't eaten since breakfast."
"You've only had a salad today?" His hands went to her hips, and he placed her back in her own seat. The blood in his pelvis began to return to the rest of his body at the alarming news.
She gave him a sharp look, looking windswept by the tousled state of her curls and the swelling in her lips. "Why are you keeping track of what I eat?"
"I'm not." His heart dropped a bit, and he twisted the truth. "I just happened to notice today."
"Well, it's none of your business what I'm eating."
He narrowed his eyes and bit his tongue. He wanted to tell her that it was his business, that he was supposed to care for her, but he knew he couldn't. She didn't want this bond, no matter how badly he did.
But he was going to worry about her anyway.
"It is my business, until the bond is reversed," he said, raising his eyebrows in silent challenge. "If you die, I die."
For a split second, she looked enraged. More livid than he'd ever thought her capable of being. She clenched her hands into fists on her lap, appearing as though she were about to blow up on him. Almost like she were going to throw a tantrum.
He leaned back in his seat, taken aback at the level of ire he saw painted across her face.
Then, it faded.
"You're being dramatic," she said. "I was busy today, and I missed lunch. I just need to go back to the room and eat a snack. Come on."
Before he could say anything else, she got up and walked out of the alcove.
Draco was too agitated to sleep.
After feeling Hermione's lips against his own and her hips rolling in his lap, he wasn't sure how he was going to be able to sleep tonight. In spite of that, she had been right. He noticed that the storm of grey and multicolored specks was not active within him. The kiss had worked, buying them more time. He wasn't high anymore and after the way their miniature study session had gone, he was tempted to smoke again. But that was a bit difficult with Hermione sitting on the floor with her back against his legs.
He was sitting on the couch, reading the section of the marriage bonding book that they'd been looking at in the Library. He'd changed into his trackies and regular tee shirt that he always wore for pyjamas. Currently, he was skimming the historical foreword, which was informing him about "famous" witches and wizards who had successfully completed binary star bonds for their marriages. It wasn't terribly interesting, but he wanted to be thorough.
The weight of Hermione leaning against his calves was welcome, and something he knew he could get used to. She had changed into an oversized tee shirt that fell to mid-thigh and a pair of baggy pyjamas trousers, and her curls were pulled up into two haphazard buns. She sat on the floor with her knees pulled up to her chest while her hand sifted through a package of blue tortilla crisps. She'd just opened the large bag and tucked in.
He'd asked her what they were, and she'd said they were her current favorite, and explained in an irritable voice how her "favorite" foods rotated every few weeks. When he'd laughed and asked her what that even meant, she'd said, "I don't really eat when I'm hungry. I eat what I'm craving."
"When do you want to do the tree?" he asked, turning to the next page in the book.
"I dunno," she said. "Tomorrow? It doesn't really matter—I'm not leaving for holiday."
"Not going to see Potter?"
"At The Burrow?" She snorted and chomped on a crisp loudly. Her hand dove back into the bag before she'd even finished chewing. "Absolutely not."
"A burrow? What burrow? Burrowing where?"
She dissolved into an inadvertent fit of giggles as she licked crisp dust off of her fingers and then kept grabbing more. "The Burrow. It's Ron's family home. They call it The Burrow."
Draco snorted. "I'm thoroughly unsurprised. They would name their hovel in such a way."
"Don't be a prat." Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. "Your family home is called The Manor. You're both Pureblood families."
"Some of us are a little more honorable than others."
"I—" Chomp. Chomp. Pause. Chomp. "Ronald may not be honorable, but the rest of the family is. George is loyal, Ginny lights up a room, Percy is reliable, Bill is kind, Charlie is adventurous, Arthur—their father is endearing, and Molly—their mother has the loveliest heart. And I don't want to make excuses for Ron, but he's got his good qualities."
"Wasn't there one more?" He moved on to read a third page.
Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.
"Granger." He jostled his leg to nudge her back. "Did you hear me?"
"Yes," she said, voice quiet. "The other was Fred, George's twin brother."
Draco read the same sentence repeatedly.
Of course. How could he have forgotten? Dumbeldore's Army had had way more heartbreaking losses than the Dark Lord's. Students, professors, children, and adults. Sometimes, Draco was so wrapped up in his own loss that he forgot he wasn't the only one who knew what it was like to have an unfillable hole in his heart.
"I remember him," he said. "He was as funny as he was heroic, I'm sure."
Hermione ducked her head down, saying nothing as she stuffed a large handful of crisps into her mouth. Her cheeks filled to the brim—so full that it took her a bit longer to chew and swallow them all.
Her hand was in the bag immediately after.
Draco sensed that she needed some peace and quiet, so he went back to reading. The steady chomp, chomp, chomp of her eating began to drone on in the background. After ten minutes or so, she cleared her throat.
"I'm off to the loo," she said, and then she was out of the room.
Draco watched her go, heard the door click shut, and then he looked at the ground. She'd left the crisps bag. She'd been eating them so heartily that he was sure they had to be delicious. Holding his book from the top so he didn't lose his place, he leaned down and grabbed the bag.
It was empty.
Fuck, she ate those fast.
He set the bag back on the floor, then accioed his wand from where he'd left it in his coat pocket. He smirked to himself at his eternal laziness and vanished the empty packaging. He always was surprised when his mother had eaten entire packages of food after first opening them.
Wait.
Draco looked down the hall, a deep frown on his face. His heart began to beat faster as once again, reality slammed into him like a stray Bludger. Because all the facts were staring him down, waiting for him to put them together.
The alternating eating habits. The frequent trips to the loo. The swooning spells. The irritability and borderline temper tantrums. The baggy way her clothes fit. The fact that the crisps weren't the first thing she'd eaten when they got back to the common room—they were the third.
She'd eaten a meal from the refrigerator and a package of chocolates she'd fished from her dorm room.
But it can't be. She's Hermione Granger, and she's the most put-together witch in the world.
There's no way she's . . .
He remembered the blue flecks under the rim of the toilet.
Blue flecks. Blue crisps.
"I eat what I'm craving."
He stared at the book until the pages blurred, and thirty minutes later, the bathroom door came open again. Lowering the book, he turned to look at her.
Hermione padded into the room, wearing only the giant tee shirt. Her curly hair was damp, hanging in wet strips to her elbows that dripped onto the floor. Her eyes were half-shut, and she looked like she'd never felt more tired. She swayed slightly on her feet.
"Hermione," he said, stretching her name out. "Are you okay?"
She hung her head, wringing her hands beneath her chest. Her shoulders rose, like she was more uncomfortable than she'd ever been before. He sat up straight, watching her chin quiver and her brows come together on her forehead. She stood before him, swaying and small and in need, crumbling like a wall made of clay.
His heart squeezed in a vice.
"Come here," he said, the words simple and necessary.
She burst into tears, dissolving into uncontrolled sobs. Shrinking in on herself, she climbed into his lap, immediately soaking his shirt with the shower water. She curled up there, resting her head against his chest beneath his shoulder. And she wept.
His eyes swept her body—her bare arms and legs—and he saw her for the first time. Saw her for the person she used to be, and the person she'd wasted away into. Saw what the ignorance of her friends had wrought. Saw the results of the harm she'd been doing to herself.
Saw his mother reflected in her torment.
He dropped the book to the floor with a soft thud. His arm wrapped around her shoulders to show her that he wasn't going to let her fall. His other hand sifted through her curls, getting expectantly tangled, and his thumb wiped her tears away in spite of the futility.
"There's a good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head that he wished he could have given to his mother. He closed his eyes against the sudden prickling in his eyes. "You're okay."
"I'm not," she sobbed. "I'm not okay."
He tightened his hold on her. "I know, love. But you're strong. You're the strongest witch I know, and I've got you now."
"Stop."
"No," he whispered, thumb slick with her tears. "I need you to know that you're not alone."
"Stop." Her sobs started anew, wracking her body and causing her to pull her legs up closer to him. She burrowed her face into his chest. "Please stop. Please, please."
"No," he growled and he used her hair to tilt her face upward. He looked down into her eyes, directly into them even as they overflowed. "I need you to listen to me, Hermione."
She started to close her eyes, and he tugged on her curls to get her to open them again.
"I'm here," he said. Not Weasley. Not Potter. Not Theo. "Me. Draco. I'm here."
Draco knew why she was crying.
He knew, and even though he knew he didn't want it to be true, he was glad he was the one who knew. He was the only person who could possibly understand. The only person who could help her.
The only person who could fix it.
Draco held her until they drifted off and woke up in Paris.
