Credits for the "he looks like he could kill you but is a cinnamon roll" premise goes to the reviewer ehlara on ao3.
Apricity – Chapter Nineteen
The Eiffel Tower.
Draco felt his heart sinking as his gaze washed over the tower, the mountains, and the buildings he recognized. He was standing at a window overlooking a Paris that basked underneath the setting sun.
That meant that it was August 17th, 1998.
Again.
The first thing he did was lift his arms, hoping they weren't Hermione's. Relief flooded his body when he saw the familiar black and grey tattoos littering his fingers, hands, and forearms. He was in his own body.
He looked to the left and then the right, seeing the familiar ugly floral cream wallpaper of the hotel room. The red décor. The green carpet. The bed, the bathroom, the mirror.
Hermione, standing in front of it.
She stared at his reflection in the mirror, eyes wide. Her body was wrapped in the short, red satin dress he recognized, with the square neckline and the ruched sides. The nylons, the strappy heels, the crimson lipstick—he recognized it all.
He took a step toward her, acutely aware of the fact that his feet were bare and he was in the pyjamas he'd fallen asleep in.
"Can you—" He stopped when she began to nod. "So, this isn't a memory, then. It's a dream."
"But why here?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Why this again?"
"I don't know. Maybe things are different now that we've activated the bond. Maybe it's getting stronger. Or maybe it's because you were so upset. Have you tried to wake up?"
"Yes. But it didn't work. I'm stuck here."
Hermione looked at herself in the mirror again, appearing crestfallen. He watched her patting her sleek bun, smoothing her fingers along her edges. Saw her smoothing her hands anxiously down the front of her dress. Saw her take a deep breath that shook on its way out.
"Draco, I can't do this again. I can't."
"Maybe you don't have to." Draco took another step toward her, having every intention of putting his hand on her shoulder. "This is a dream of a memory. Perhaps we can make changes."
"It won't change anything that happened," she said, frowning. He could see her trying to fortify herself—could see her mentally preparing for what was to come.
"I don't think I have a choice."
Then, they both gasped.
"Ron's going to walk in," she said. "And this is a dream—I think he'll be able to see you, and even in a dream, I don't want to deal with it."
Draco looked around, frantic. Heart pounding, he barreled across the room, ripped open the closet door, and threw himself inside.
"Hermione, are you really going to wear that?"
His mind whirled in the darkness as he tried to get his bearings. He knew where he was, and he knew what was going to happen. Whether or not he was going to be able to fix things this time was up to the will of the dream.
"Ron, I've told you multiple times that all of us girls agreed to dress up. It's our last night in the city, and we want to have fun with it."
Okay, so she was saying the same things she'd said before. Did she have control over what she said? Was it the memory, or was she saying it because she remembered it, too?
He closed his eyes and allowed himself a steadying breath.
No matter what, he needed to remain calm. The last time he'd been here, he'd been inside of Hermione's mind, and hadn't needed to think about where and when. Now that he was in his own body, he could make his own choices about where to go.
Draco was going to help her. He wasn't going to stand there like he had in the Manor the day his aunt tortured her. He wasn't going to let the man hurt her.
He had to make the right choices this time.
"Okay, but don't come crying to me when someone says you look like a slag."
Oh, fantastic. Now his desire to beat the fuck out of the Weaselbee was refreshed.
Draco waited in the closet until he heard the door click shut. He exited and went to sit on the end of the bed.
None of this made sense.
The last time he'd been in this memory, it was due to the tea that Pansy had slipped Hermione. They were under the impression that in conjunction with the spell Trelawney taught them, it had caused her to relive her worst memory. As far as he knew, no one had imbibed any tea or cast any spells before they passed out on the couch.
Unless she didn't need the tea or the spell to relive it anymore.
He cursed under his breath. How many other times had she had this nightmare since the tea incident? How many times had he gone to sleep and not walked her dreams, thinking it was a fluke or anomaly? Had every time he'd closed his eyes and not seen her been a night where she had to relive it over and over and over?
Maybe the tea hadn't caused the memory—maybe it had just unlocked the cell in which Hermione had imprisoned it.
But there was a big difference this time. Draco was here, in his own body, and she could see him and interact with him. That meant the environment could interact with him, too.
Could he make changes only to himself, or could he make changes to the course of events?
He went over the memory in his mind, trying to remember the directions to the pub. Perhaps if he could make it there in time, he could stop the assault from happening and rewrite it into something bearable.
There was no reason to relive old traumas.
He walked into the pub like he was meant to be there the entire time.
The dream world had allowed him to change his clothing. He'd put on a black thermal with long sleeves and dark blue denims with a black belt. His platinum blonde hair was messy, as usual, and fell into his eyes as he made his way down the street. His memory had served him well.
Hermione, Potter, the Weaselbee, and the family members who had been there in the original memory were there. The youngest Weasley, George, Bill and his wife Fleur were there, too. The Weaselbee was sending surreptitious glances in a Muggle girl's direction, souring Draco's mood even more as he recalled Hermione saying that he'd kissed a girl in London before they'd even gone on this trip.
As he neared the table, he could hear that they were coming to the end of their interrogation about Hermione's future.
Draco wondered at the ignorance of the people she had called friends and said wonderful things about on the floor of their common room. All these people she loved, and none of them could see that she was quite literally spiraling out of orbit. He didn't have to ask her in real life or in a dream to know that she had no idea what she wanted to do after Hogwarts, and that it was stressing her out.
He just didn't know how he could help her with that. His own future hung in the balance.
"What about writing Kingsley?" Potter was saying, just like Draco remembered.
Hermione's back was to him, so she didn't see him approaching.
"That's an option," she said, and Draco couldn't help but notice her voice was a bit monotone. Like she was being forced to follow the track of the memory, when she was aware that it was a dream. "I had thought about it. But I can't really think about it until I start Eighth Year."
"Are you sure you want to take the risk?" Potter said, lifting his drink. Then, his gaze slid past Hermione. "Malfoy?"
All right, so Draco could influence the dream.
Could he change it?
The entire table fell silent as all eyes swiveled to lock onto Draco, who placed his hands on the edge of the table on either side of Hermione. He rested one foot on the lower rung of her stool and pretended not to notice when she leaned back into him, relaxing as though all of the tension had left her body.
"Potter," Draco said, and then he immediately fell into the false narrative he'd created to explain his presence. "I came on vacation to France to escape my nightmares. Imagine my surprise when I discover my nightmares have decided to escape me in Paris."
"Oh, stuff it," Ginny said with a revolted wrinkle of her nose. "You're so full of yourself."
Draco smirked and leaned forward a bit further, feeling Hermione's warmth settling in against his torso. "Some rather like being full of me."
"Draco," Hermione scolded, jerking her elbow backward into his side. He stifled a laugh and lifted his right hand from the table to catch her forearm in his grasp. Ginny and Potter watched him do it, and then exchanged wide-eyed glances.
The silence was deafening.
Within seconds, everyone had their wands out. Potter, Ginny, Bill, Fleur, George, and the Weaselbee—and none of their arms shook. For a brief moment, Draco felt like it really was August, and the tiniest flutter of fear echoed in his chest.
Then, he remembered it was a dream.
"What're you going to do?" he said, letting his fingers slide along Hermione's forearm on his hand's way back to the edge of the table. "Commit murder in another country? You know they won't make any exceptions to the law for the Golden Boy and his ilk, right?"
"It certainly wouldn't be hard to make it look like self-defense," Potter sneered, his gaze focusing on the tattoos on Draco's neck. "You look the part of a criminal now."
Draco, feeling a bit gleeful knowing that it was a dream and they couldn't hurt him, grinned and lifted the front of his shirt. He revealed the fact that his abdomen was completely covered in tattoos, too, relishing in the discomfort he saw there in their eyes.
"Are you scared?" he drawled. "Because that's not even the half of them."
"You're only here to cause trouble, Draco Malfoy," Bill said with his short wand trained directly on Draco's head, "so, I'd suggest you move to another table, or leave the pub."
George snickered. "Or we could always commit murder. I've always wanted to see if the Malfoy blood was as pure as they say it is. Ooh! Maybe I can make something with it."
"Oh, stop it," Hermione said, propping her chin in her hand. "He's my friend. He can stay."
The Weaselbee made a series of spluttering noises as he choked on his own saliva. Ginny's eyebrows shot up as her gaze snapped back and forth between Draco and Hermione's faces. Potter's jaw hung agape. George looked like he was about to start laughing. Bill and Fleur merely exchanged glances before hesitantly lowering their wands.
"You must be joking," Ginny said. "You can't possibly be friends with—He's Malfoy."
"Yes, and he's my friend." Hermione tilted her head back, looking upside-down at Draco with a wide grin on her face. It was clear she was as relieved as he was. "Care to stay for a drink?"
If he could influence the dream, then perhaps it didn't have to turn into a nightmare.
"Stay for a—" Weaselbee scowled and pointed one thick finger in Draco's direction. Hermione was sitting at the end of the table, and he was beside her on the corner. If he jabbed his finger anymore forcefully, he'd hit Draco. "Hermione, have you gone absolutely mental? First, you leave the hotel wearing—after our row without trying to make anything right, and now you're suddenly friends with Malfoy? How come you've never said anything about this to any of us? When did you have time to become friends with him after everything his father did? Everything he did during the war? Do you ever think before you do anything? You act like you're so smart, but then you go and do shite like—like this!"
Draco grimaced. Not only was Weaselbee censoring the true circumstances of their argument and how he'd called her a slag, but he was making it seem like Hermione was lying to try and cover something up. He could see why Hermione hadn't wanted to deal with him. She was a strong witch and a stronger person, but no one could deal with this.
Except Draco.
"Can you shut the fuck up?" he snarled, moving to Hermione's left and letting his hand settle in the dip of her lower back. "Stop talking to her like that, you brainless oaf."
Weasley stared at him with a slack-jawed expression, and Draco continued.
"Just because your witch is more intelligent than you and you're bloody jealous of the fact that she knows two-plus-two and you don't, doesn't give you the right to talk to her like that."
This new silence was one of discomfort, but somewhere beneath it, Draco could sense an air of approval. In fact, when he glanced past the Weaselbee and looked at Ginny, she was hiding a smile behind her hand and shooting Hermione a pointed look.
"You're just gonna sit there and let him talk to me like that?" Weasley said, as though Draco hadn't even said anything.
"Hey!" Draco snapped his fingers in front of the Weaselbee's face and stepped around to Hermione's other side. "She's not the one who was speaking to you. I was. If you can't answer the question, then keep your mouth shut, weasel!"
Out came Weasley's wand again.
Draco reached into the back pocket of his trousers for his own wand, irritated to find that it wasn't there. When he tried to imagine it was—since it was a dream—nothing happened.
It appeared it didn't want him to have his wand.
Odd.
No matter. He could just use his fists. He'd been waiting for the chance and better in a dream than never.
Hermione hopped off of the stool and turned to face him. She placed her hands on his chest to stop him from lunging forward. He glowered at the Weaselbee over her head, who was barely being held back by an overwhelmed Potter.
"I don't know who you think you are, talking to me like that!" Weaselbee roared, spittle flying from his bared teeth. His skin was ruddy and red. "I should crucio you for everything you've done, you fucking wanker! I should rip your eyes out and hex you to Hell, you bloody fucking tosser! You—"
"Ron!" Potter was yelling in the chaos. Pub patrons were watching with interest and the bartender was heading over with an expression of anger in his eyes. "Ron, you've got to cool it!
"You belong in Azkaban alongside your piece of rubbish father, you Death Eater trash son of a bitch! You bloody fucking meaningless waste of—"
"Draco, just ignore him," Hermione said, pushing Draco back again. In her heels, the top of her head reached his chin instead of his shoulders. It felt almost alien to be able to look into her eyes from this close. She was stunning, but he was angry.
He wrapped his hands around Hermione's wrists, his thumbs stroking her pulse just because her skin felt soft, even here. "Respectfully, Granger—I'm going to lay his arse out. So, you'd best move."
"It's just . . . A dream," she said under her breath, holding his gaze.
"But—"
"A dream, Draco."
He sighed and looked over at the table again. George was casually ordering another drink from the bartender. Bill and Fleur were bustling around the establishment, casting obliviate repeatedly. Ginny was watching them with her arms crossed and an eyebrow quirked.
And then the Weaselbee crossed the line.
"You belong six feet under with your whore of a Death Eater mother, you fucking piece of Thestral shite!"
Hermione whirled around to face Ron, and Ginny's hands flew to her mouth. Even Potter looked mortified. Bill and Fleur hadn't heard, but George looked like he was witnessing gossip unfolding right before his eyes. He merely sipped his alcohol.
How dare Weaselbee talk about his mother like that, real or not? This was coming from Hermione's subconscious. That meant the Weasel had to have said things similar before.
Draco forgot it was a dream.
He lost his shite.
Without so much as a warning, he made a break for Weaselbee, whose face flashed with terror. Draco pushed his sleeves up as he went, eyes blazing with the fires of his hatred for the redheaded freak.
"You're dead. You're fucking dead!" he roared in a hoarse voice.
Potter turned to face Draco, his wand out with the point up to protect his friend out of pure loyalty, but Draco continued to yell, his entire body hot with rage. He'd only been this angry a few times before, but right now, it was like the flames had consumed him.
"I'm gonna fucking slit your throat, you fucking tosser. That's my mother. Don't you fucking talk about my mother! Don't you—"
Hermione was joined by Ginny. Both girls stood with their backs to Potter, who had given up on the wand threat and was now facing the Weasel. It took a few tries with a lot of yelling and more memory erasure to the patrons by Bill and Fleur, but soon the boys were separated. George kept laughing.
Chaos.
"Go take a break, Malfoy," Ginny said, shaking her head.
"What are you talking about?!" Draco yelled, throwing his hand out. "He's the one who—"
"You knew what you were doing when you walked up," Ginny cut in, rolling her eyes. She grabbed her drink and took a sip. "You knew it was going to cause issues."
"You wanted to cause problems because you're rubbish!" Weaselbee roared.
Draco opened his mouth to retort but stopped at the withering stare from Hermione.
She was right. It was just a dream. He was wasting time—none of this was going to change the outcome. He needed to take a break in the bathroom for a second, where he could be alone to think. He needed to figure out what to do because at this rate, Hermione and Weasley were still going to fight. If they fought, he was going to take her wand again.
"Fuck you, Weaselbee," Draco spat, backing away and pointing both pointer fingers at him. "Fuck you for that, and fuck you for talking about my mother."
He turned and stormed down the nearest hallway, towards the loo.
Click-clack, click-clack, click-clack.
Hermione crashed into his back right as he was entering the single bathroom. She reached past him urging him inside, and then slammed the door shut behind them. Panting and breathless, she turned the lock and whirled around to face him.
"I'm so sorry," she said, voice tremulous. "He can be such a monster and I never noticed until this year. I don't know what I thought would happen, but maybe I should have come up with a more solid plan with you. In a dream or not in a dream: you should never have to hear such horrible things about Narcissa."
"No," Draco said, still seething. "There wasn't any time—we only had about two minutes."
"Okay," she said. "But it's no excuse. I should have known he was going to blow up if you walked into the pub. There's no dimension where Harry, Ron, and the others would ever be all right with you just showing up like that."
Draco looked at her then, studying her face. The flush to her cheeks, the light in her eyes that never seemed to be there when they were awake. The way her chest rose up and down with her adrenaline, and the gentle slope of her neck into her bronzed shoulders. The red of her lips playing off the red satin of her dress.
Salazar, she was fucking gorgeous.
Then, he frowned.
Her body looked different than it had in the last shared dream. She looked fuller, more healthy. The dark circles underneath her eyes were gone, and her lips weren't chapped. He couldn't see the horizontal ridges of her chest bone anymore. When she crossed her arms over her chest, he saw breasts where there weren't any in the present day. And when his eyes swept down to her legs, the only way he could describe the way they looked was supple.
His heart sank.
When it was up to her, her vision was skewed. When her subconscious made the decision, she appeared healthy and well.
It was the nail in the coffin.
Hermione wasn't well.
But wait, he thought as his eyes met hers again, if she couldn't change the way her body and clothes looked this time . . . Does that mean she can't affect the dream on her own?
Determination threaded its way through him, fortifying his resolve. Just like Sixth Year, when it was all resting on his shoulders. Only this time, he knew he was strong enough.
He had to fix this.
"He's said that shite before, hasn't he?" Draco said, leaning over the small counter with his palms flat to the tiles. "And that's why he said it out there."
"What do you mean?"
"This is a dream based on a memory, Hermione. It's your subconscious. It can't make the Weasel say something he either hasn't already said, or isn't likely to say."
"Theoretically."
"Yes, but still."
"Okay, fine." Hermione sighed. "Yes, he's said that sort of stuff before. Harry has never said anything about your mother, but I've overheard them insulting you multiple times."
"And you never joined in?"
"Do I seem like that sort of person?" she asked, brows coming together in visible offense. "I know I've got a temper, but I'm not the sort to gossip. Even about you."
"Hm." He glanced at the door. "Shouldn't you go back out there?"
"Not yet. I seem to be on some sort of . . . Preconceived general track. When you're around, I seem able to speak my mind and say what I wish, but before you got to the pub, I was saying the things from the memory. It felt like I was reciting a script from a play. My body moved, but I wasn't able to make it turn, or stop, or anything like that."
"So, it stands to reason that as long as you stick near me, we can get you through this."
She bit her lower lip. "I don't know. Something doesn't feel right about it. The last time, it was a memory. This time, it feels like a nightmare. There's something . . . Sinister about it. It feels like it's not going to be as easy as we think. It doesn't feel like the times I went into your dream."
"Do you think it has something to do with the bond?"
"Yes," she said. "Unequivocally. I think that when you first started having the dreams, I hadn't been through my Awakening, and that's why you were only able to watch. Once I did, I was able to enter your dreams. But I don't think we're in the second level, either. I think we're in the third."
They locked eyes and then quickly looked away.
"Whatever happens, let's just go with the flow. It may be that we aren't getting any answers tonight. As for the Weaselbee, if I—no. When I see him again—and I mean in real life—I'm done, Hermione. Do you understand me?" He turned his head towards her. "The Weasel is fucking done."
Her expression took on an exasperated appearance. "You can't attack Ron at school for something he said in a dream."
"No, but I can attack him for the things he's done, and the things he has said." Draco smirked. "Or simply because I want to."
"You'd better not."
"Or else what?" He breathed out a laugh and looked down at her. "What are you gonna do about it?"
She sighed and uncrossed her arms, stepping closer to him. Draco felt his breath go still in his chest when she reached out and brushed her fingers across the front of his thermal. It was strange, but for the first time, he couldn't feel the storm. His lips curled up in a small smile.
"What are you doing?"
"You're covered in dust," she said. "And hairs. Why would you imagine yourself into this fabric?"
He laughed. "That's what you're worried about?"
"No. That's not what I'm worried about."
She stopped sweeping the imaginary hairs off of his shirt and let her hand rest flat against his sternum. He knew she could feel the way his heart was beating, and he wondered if she knew how nervous he was. There was so much that could go wrong.
"It's gonna be okay," he murmured, and then he covered her hand with his own, pinning it there. "You're not gonna have to relive this again."
"I don't know," she whispered. He could tell she was trying to be logical and matter-of-fact about it. "I don't want to get my hopes up. I've tried to wake up, but it feels like I'm trapped."
"Well, I'm not even going to try and open my eyes," he said, pulling her hand away from his chest so he could hold it in both of his. "We're getting through this together, just like last time."
"Do you promise you'll come find me?"
"Always." As the words left him, he realized how true they were with a flip of his stomach.
She turned her head, her cheeks reddening. He knew she was still ashamed of that experience. She had to be. How often could someone say they'd had to relive an assault and experienced having their school bully in their head feeling it all with them?
It was in and of itself humiliating.
"Whatever this is," Hermione said, "this has to be the last time. I cannot—cannot—ever relive this night again."
"I know."
"Draco . . ."
"I know." He tugged on her hand, her heels clacking against the linoleum as she stumbled closer. "We'll go into my dreams every night, if we have to."
If they accepted the bond, that is.
"No, you don't understand." She pulled her hand out of his grasp and looked up at him with a resolute glint in her eyes. "When we wake up, I want you to obliviate me."
Oh.
Oh.
"What?" he said.
"You're a Legilimens, right? Like your father? I thought I heard it through the grapevine."
"No—I mean, yes." He waved his hand, fingers fluttering in dismissal. "My father is not, but I am. Snape trained me. I started exercises before my magic even presented."
He knew everyone knew Snape was his godfather, so when she simply kept speaking, he was unsurprised.
"Good. Then it should be no trouble for you to obliviate the memory of Paris from my mind."
Something about that didn't sit right with him. It wasn't that he wanted her to keep it, but he knew firsthand the dangers of erasing trauma from a person's mind. He'd tried to Occlude his own memories of the war away, only to find that the pain lingered with no cause for it.
But it was her life, and she was suffering.
"All right," he said. "If you're sure."
"I . . ." She closed her eyes. "I think I am."
"Do you want to maybe think about it before?"
She looked panicked for a moment, the anxiety flickering across her face like shadows, and he reacted without thinking. His hand curved around the back of her neck and dragged her forward the rest of the way, until her cheek pressed against his chest.
"Don't worry about it right now," he said. "There's other things going on, and no reason to think about what happens when you wake up when you haven't finished sleeping."
"Okay," she mumbled into his shirt.
"And maybe . . . Maybe we oughta handle this bonding magic before we tackle memory erasure. Is that a good compromise?"
"I don't want to compromise." She started to lean back, but he pressed tighter so she couldn't. "Draco, I don't want to compromise. I'm set on this."
"For how long have you been set on this?" he said. "Because I'm not erasing your memory until I know you've thoroughly thought this through."
She wrenched herself away, her sudden vehemence catching him off guard, and glared up at him.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she cried. "Why are you trying to make me live with this? Stop treating me like I'm mad!"
"Aren't you?!" he hollered back, throwing his hands up into the air. The words were on the tip of his tongue, steeped in frustration. He wanted to tell her he knew she wasn't eating, but he didn't want to make things worse than he already had.
"No," she hissed, hands in fists at her sides. "I'm not mad. I'm not mental. I'm not insane. I'm a woman who has been through too much pain, and I'm tired of it. Every time I close my eyes, I see him, and I can't take it anymore. If you don't do it, then I'll find someone who will."
"Then why haven't you asked someone before me?" he cried. "Why would you think I would be the one to do it?"
"Because you're the only one who knows!" she shrieked, eyes wide. "You're the only one who knows it happened, and you're the only one I want to know about it. You're the only one who—" Her voice broke and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, they were glassy. "You're the only one who cares enough about me to do exactly as I ask, regardless of the legal grey areas."
"So, you think that because I'm the type to break the rules, I'll perform an illegal, unsanctioned Obliviation on you, because I care about you?"
"Yes!"
He stared at her. "You realize that's manipulation, yeah? You realize that's you subscribing to your own prejudices about me—" He gestured with his hand, as though pointing to himself standing to the right of the room. "—and using them to get what you want."
She flinched as his words sank in. "Yes, okay? I won't deny I'm manipulative. I won't deny that, but . . . I don't want to fight with you, Draco."
"And I don't want to fight with you. But you can't expect me to do whatever you ask without being willing to come to some sort of compromise." She gave him the look of a petulant, annoyed child, but he kept going. "I will do this for you only after we've handled the star bond. Not a second before. Do you understand me?"
"But that's not fair!" she cried. "It's my head, and I—"
"And my wand." He grabbed her chin and forced it upward. "Do you understand me, Granger?"
She pursed her lips together, glowering up at him before finally biting out a clipped agreement.
"Good girl," he said, feeling his irritation filling his chest. He let go of her chin, watching her eyes flash as she continued to glare at him. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the counter, so tall that he was able to do so. "You're infuriating, you know that?"
"I do know that."
"Yeah, well . . ."
Hermione's hands snapped up to grab the sides of Draco's face. His arms flew out to his sides as she yanked him down to her level, a surprised sound leaving his mouth.
And then she was kissing him.
She was standing between his legs and kissing him with the full force of a woman on an angry mission. He tasted a toxic cocktail of ire, desperation, and stress in her mouth, reflected in the way her tongue lashed against his. She dominated that kiss, from the tips of her fingers slowly scraping their way into his hair, to the way she leaned her entire body against his.
He gasped into her mouth and clutched her hips for some sort of anchor as he tried to keep up with her, his mind and heart racing.
Was this because of the bond? Was she already feeling the storm whipping up again? He wasn't, so if it wasn't the bond, then what was this?
Hermione pulled back a bit, her back arching to fit the curve of his torso, and she looked up at him.
"Wait," he said. "You—"
Her lips met his again, searing in how hot they were. It pulled him under, keeping him from breaching the surface and getting a breath of fresh air. The loo felt smaller than it had before, the walls seeming to be their entire world.
Draco tilted his head and kissed her back, trying to gain some sort of footing on solid ground so he could dominate. He didn't like being the one caught off guard, and he didn't like that they were snogging right now.
Did they even have time for this?
His hands clutched her face, pushing her back.
"Wait a fucking second," he said. "What—"
She pushed herself up onto the tips of her toes with a forceful jerk, her face slipping through his hold. Her lips smashed against his yet again and her arms wrapped so tight around his neck that it would be impossible for him to extricate himself from her.
He could feel his feet slipping on ice, the dips and crevices in his resolve melting beneath him.
If she was kissing him like this, then maybe it was because she wanted to. Maybe it had nothing to do with the bond. Maybe she was kissing him because she actually wanted to kiss him.
Her lips broke from his, ghosting along his jaw. Her fingers gripped his hair, pulling him down again so she could stand flat on her heels.
"It's only a dream," she whispered into his ear, her voice sending chills down his spine.
She was right. It was only a dream.
Draco tossed his faculties aside, turned his head, and captured her lips. The moment he did, he consumed her like the flames that were devouring his flesh. His hands stroked down her sides, sliding around to grip her rear, and he lifted her.
Hermione made a surprised sound against his lips as he spun her around and set her down on the counter. Her thighs bracketed his hips as they kissed, the heat in the room rising to almost unbearable levels. Her back pressed to the mirror, one of her hands reaching up to touch the glass while the other tangled so deep in his hair that it actually hurt.
"You know what you're doing," he growled against her lips. Desperation to be close to her urged him to wrap his hands around her thighs and pull the lower half of her body against his. His eyes opened and darted up and down her face. "You manipulative little witch."
"Or maybe—" She breathed a huff that ended on a moan when his lips found her pulse. "Or maybe I'm just hoping this changes things enough. Maybe I'm h-hoping you'll—ah—rewrite history."
At her words, Draco paused. He looked up at her, his hands sliding along the smooth flesh of her thighs—something he had yet to do in waking.
Did she want to . . . ?
Did she think doing it in the confines of the dream would be enough to change it?
"You want me to erase him?" he whispered, tilting his head to the side and brushing his nose against hers. He felt her lips grazing the skin of his own. "Before he even gets a chance to lay his hands on you?"
Their eyes locked. Her hands cupped the back of his head. In her face, he saw a need that transcended the flesh. She did want Draco to erase him. But the indecision was so clear. The fear and the anxiety.
Draco wasn't going to do that to her, and he had no desire to. He wanted to save her, not ruin her.
"No," she mumbled. "Yes. I don't know."
"Granger," he said. "You can't possibly be thinking clearly in this situation."
"I hate this," she said. "I hate how terrified I am. This isn't me. This isn't how it's supposed to be. I'm not supposed to be weak."
"Oh, you're anything but weak," he said, feeling his own desperation singing through his veins. He reached for her.
They kissed again, this time much gentler than before—a soft melding of their mouths. He could tell she was trying to escalate it, but he had to stop her. He couldn't let her make a decision like this based out of fear.
Suddenly, she pushed against his chest.
"I have to go out there," she said.
"Is it—"
"I think Ginny's about to go outside to smoke. The dream wants me to go out there. It feels like a—a need. A pull on my thoughts." She slid back to the floor and headed for the door.
"Should we talk about this? When we wake up?"
"What for?" She looked him directly in the eyes. "It was the bond."
He watched her go, trying not to drown in the emptiness her words created within him.
"I'll be out soon," Draco said, turning to the sink and the mirror above it. His hair was a disaster, sticking up in all directions.
Hermione had walked through the door with a blank expression on her face, one that filled Draco with a sense of trepidation.
What if the blank expression was because she was unable to hear him when she was following the dream's wishes?
What if he wasn't going to be able to keep his promise?
He splashed water against his face to halt his train of thought. No. He wasn't going to do this. He wasn't going to let his fears get the best of him. He was going to set his shoulders back, march out there, and stand by Hermione's side for as long as the dream would let him.
Draco left the bathroom, his gaze falling upon the table. Everyone was there save for Ginny and Hermione, who Draco knew were now outside at this point. He looked at Potter first, who didn't seem to see him, or didn't care about his presence any longer. Then, he glanced at the Weaselbee.
The redheaded fool was sipping his alcoholic beverage, sneering at Hermione's purse. He picked it up and slammed it down in front of him, as though it were the most annoying, difficult task in the world to have to watch over it.
Draco actually wanted to punch him for that.
Turning, he headed for the side door. As he neared it, he heard the witches' voices before he smelled the smoke of Ginny's cigarette. The conversation was markedly different from the one they'd originally had, and that lifted his spirits.
If he could influence the conversation when he wasn't around her, that was a good sign. It had to be.
"I'm shocked that you're friends with him, Hermione," he heard Ginny say as he leaned against the wall. "When did that happen?"
"Oh, just you know," Hermione said. "It just did."
"I saw him getting the tattoos during Seventh Year, but I don't remember him getting the one on his neck," Ginny said. "That's new. And terrifying. And it looks painful."
"I like it," Hermione said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. "I like all of his tattoos, actually. It makes him look rather dashing, don't you think?"
"Hermione!" Ginny said with a gasp. "I mean, he's always been attractive. But now he looks scary." She giggled. "All tall and brooding like that . . . He looks like he could kill me."
"I know," Hermione said, and she was laughing, too. "But honestly, he's quite possibly the sweetest guy I know. He looks like he could kill you, but he's a teddy bear."
"A teddy bear?" He heard Ginny inhale and then blow the smoke out between her lips. "Draco Malfoy?"
"Well . . . He's a bit sweeter than that, like a marshmallow or a cinnamon bun. He's not the person he made himself out to be when we were younger. I think back then, he was misunderstood. But now he's—he's different. He's not Malfoy, the terror of Hogwarts anymore. He's—"
"Draco?"
Hermione was quiet for a minute before she said, "Yes. I call him Draco."
"It's only been three-and-a-half months since the war ended, and there's a lot of past between the two of you," Ginny said. "I just hope you're careful with a friendship like that."
"I am," Hermione said. "And he's careful with me."
"Hmm."
Draco spun away from the wall and stepped outside, his hands in his pockets. He knew they had bigger things to worry about, but he couldn't stop his mouth from curving into a smirk. He sauntered over to Hermione, who looked like she'd just been caught stealing from Flourish and Blotts. Leaning against the railing beside her, he spoke to Ginny.
"I'm terrifying?"
Ginny's smirk mirrored his as she brought her cigarette to her lips again. "And you're an eavesdropper, too."
"I'm a Slytherin." He took one hand out of his pocket and wrapped it around the metal railing behind him. He felt Hermione lean closer, felt her back brushing up against his knuckle. "We like to be where we don't belong."
Ginny's gaze dropped and her eyebrows rose. "I'll say."
They chatted for a couple more moments, and then went back inside. Just like last time, the scent of smoke clung to both her and Hermione. Together with the added sight of Draco towering over Hermione from behind, the Weaselbee looked about ready to explode.
They all returned to their seats, and Draco stood to Hermione's left. Harry said something to Ginny, who then said something to Fleur. Bill and George leaned in to say something to one another. Hermione started to reach for her purse, and a sudden laugh from another pub patron startled her. Her wrist knocked into one of the Weaselbee's empty glasses, sending ice scattering on the floor.
"Oh, my!" She drew her hand back, her mouth dropping open. "I'm so sorry, Ron!"
"Merlin's hut, Hermione!" Weasley looked irritated as he swept ice off of his lap. "Can you look where you're reaching, then? Blimey!"
Draco wanted to snap at him, but he kept his mouth shut. Better not to cause any fuss. He was trying to keep them from arguing so that she wouldn't get her wand taken away—not start an entirely new row.
Hermione sat up straight. Draco saw that one strap of her dress had slipped down her right shoulder. Without thinking, he reached around behind her and pulled it back up. His hand then settled against her lower back again.
The Weaselbee saw the whole thing.
He didn't like it.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" the oaf snarled. "No—what the fuck are you actually doing right now?"
"Nothing," Draco said, his voice deadly and low.
"Ron, he's not doing anything," Hermione added, and he could hear her voice trembling. She didn't want a fight to happen, either. They were so, so close to the finish line.
"You just pulled my girlfriend's strap up!" Weasley yelled, and he jabbed his thumb against his chest. "Keyword: my girlfriend!"
"Well, you weren't going to do it!" Draco shot back, once again forgetting that this was just a dream.
"Draco!" Hermione hissed, turning to glare up at him. "Do not."
"Look, I'm gonna wait outside," he said, his hand on the edge of the table again. He held Hermione's gaze with a silent question. "Can you come with me?"
"Come with you?" Potter choked on his drink, and several uncomfortable glances shifted around the table. "Now, wait a minute."
Draco ignored him, as did Hermione.
"No," she said, eyebrows up. "I think I'll see you when we leave, though."
He heard the unspoken words woven in her sentences. She wanted to come with him, but she couldn't. The dream wasn't going to let her. So, in some way, shape, or form, it was still on the preconceived track.
Okay, they could deal with this. He'd wait right outside the door for her and the second they came out, he'd insert himself into their group. Maybe he could stay near her during the fight, stop it from ever occurring, and then take Hermione in the opposite direction.
Hopefully then she could wake up.
None of this could change the past, but if he could somehow rewrite the dream so she never had to relive it again, then he would.
"What's the point of waiting?!" Weaselbee practically screamed. "You're not coming with—" He glared at Ginny, who was trying to placate him. "He's not coming with us!"
"Hermione," Draco said over the ruckus, his voice strained as he fought the desire to lunge for the Weasel. He didn't have it in him to care about this scenario any longer. This was a dream and Draco being inside with all of these people acting like characters in a play written by Hermione was going nowhere. It was her subconscious and if she didn't think they would ever get along, then they never would. "I'm going to be right outside—right outside, yeah? When you walk out of the pub, look to your right, and I'm going to be sitting on the curb."
"On the curb?" Hermione reiterated, glancing out the door, following the direction he was pointing.
"Yes. On the curb."
"Okay," she said with a determined pursing of her lips. She nodded to herself. "On the curb. Got it."
He gave her one last meaningful look, which she returned with a brave one of her own, and left the pub.
Outside, it was cooler than it had been earlier, the nighttime Paris air feeling refreshing after the Hell that was inside. He felt relieved to be away from them all, even if they weren't real. It was, however, a bit disheartening knowing that Hermione felt this way about him.
What if they ended up accepting the bond? What if they were actually going to spend the rest of their lives together? He had barely realized he fancied her, and now he was having to analyze a potential future. As much as he'd grown to care about her, was that something he could do?
Draco waited for a group of partiers to shimmy by, and then he lowered himself until he was sitting on the curb. Resting his elbows on his knees, he let his hands trail through his hair with absentminded motions as he watched the Muggle automobiles go by.
A life with Hermione. Navigating careers, children, and homes. Living in the Manor and trying to figure out how to get the Muggle-hating portraits to shut the bloody Hell up once in a while. Dinners with Potter and the Weasley girl. The inevitable encounter that would play out when the Weaselbee found out.
The death of the Pureblood future his parents wanted for him—the one he'd been preparing for since he was four.
The birth of a completely uncharted list of possibilities.
It was a story in and of itself.
We can handle it later, Draco thought. There's only one thing that matters right now and since I can't wake up without leaving her here alone, and she can't wake up at all, I have to focus.
He turned and looked behind him at the open door to the pub. Finding it hard to see, he stood up and turned to face it. Weird. It sort-of looked like . . .
They were gone.
Confusion etched lines into Draco's face as he walked back into the pub. The table was empty, completely cleared of drinks and napkins. For all intents and purposes, it looked as though no one had been there at all.
This wasn't part of the plan. How could the entire group have walked past him without him hearing or seeing them? He'd been sitting out there all of five minutes.
Draco walked back outside. He combed the fingers of both hands through his hair and looked down the sidewalk. He couldn't see them in the distance, and he was definitely tall enough to be able to. From what he recalled, they went left when they exited the pub, traveled a couple of blocks, and then Hermione and the Weasel had had their row.
"Where the fuck is she?" he muttered under his breath as he walked, glancing down the side streets in the hopes that she'd somehow managed to get them off the main road. "Where are they?"
He came to a stop underneath a streetlight that was exactly where they were supposed to be having their row. No one was there.
A small part of him hoped that perhaps his presence in the pub was enough to redirect the dream. He hoped she'd already woken up, because then—
Well, that wasn't possible. If she was awake, why was he still here? No, she was still sleeping.
But where was she?
Draco waited there, crossing his arms and shouldering the lamppost as he did so. His best bet was to wait the same amount of time that Hermione had waited for the Weaselbee to come back. Maybe she'd show up?
He only had forty-five minutes.
So, he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Neither Hermione nor the Weaselbee ever came.
There's no time, he though, a burst of panic bleeding into his chest. I have to follow where she went last time.
I have to find her.
Draco walked up and down the alleyway three times.
She wasn't there. The man wasn't there.
The alley was empty.
This was his worst fear. That he wouldn't make it on time, or that he wouldn't be able to help her. And he was trying—he had tried—but something went wrong. He didn't know if it was the dream or if it was Hermione herself, but something had kicked him out. She was going to stay on the same track and experience the memory in its entirety.
And this time, she'd be alone.
Again.
Draco felt the icy claws of fear sinking into his heart, pulling him down into a crouch on the ground. He let out a heavy, despairing sigh. Scrubbing at his face with his hands, he steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and let himself wallow for a solid two minutes.
He remembered what she'd endured, and he remembered what it was like to be trapped inside of her mind while it was happening. He remembered the pain and the fear and desperation.
Draco glanced behind him, at the alley wall right where she should be standing. His gaze scoured over the spot. Over the red brick and the grey grooves between each stone, recalling the feeling of her nearly tearing her fingernails out from clawing against them.
Anger rose up like a fiery dragon inside of him, vengeful and fierce.
That man had his hands on her. Again.
Draco had failed to help her. Again.
He was living down to everyone's expectations. Again.
This was just like Sixth Year. All of the pressure of the world on his shoulders, but none of the strength to carry it.
"FUCK!" he screamed, drawing the gazes of several of the people walking by. The emotion overwhelmed him and he hung his head, speaking again in a broken whisper. "Fuck . . ."
Within seconds, Draco was on his feet again and lunging toward the wall. He drew his fist back and slammed it into the brick. It was agonizing, lightning bolts of pain shooting up and down his arm from shoulder to knuckle.
He wished he was awake so he could feel it for real.
She didn't deserve this. She did not deserve this.
No one did.
Draco tilted his head back and closed his eyes, trying to settle his spirit. He was still in the dream, which meant she was still sleeping. If she was still sleeping, then it wasn't over. He still had a chance to do something good.
This Slytherin had one more card to play.
Draco gasped for air.
Hands braced against either side of the hotel room doorframe, he panted as he caught his breath. His heart was beating so fast that he was seeing spots. He'd never ran that far, that fast in his entire life, and he hoped he never had to again.
But he would, if she needed him.
He took another breath and slammed his fist against the door a second series of times.
"Hermione, it's me!" he hollered. "Come on and open the door, all right?"
Agitated and terrified that something worse had somehow taken place, he began to pace. He ran his hand through his hair, rubbed his chin, and resisted his very distinct desire to punch another wall. His knuckles had stopped bleeding, but they were as sore as the immense guilt that ached through him.
He hoped they were sore when he woke up.
When she still didn't answer, he knew it inside of his heart that it was because she was on the floor. He remembered these moments well—perhaps more vividly than any other moment in this horrific memory. She'd walked all the way back to the hotel in a dazed stupor, and the moment she'd broken down is the moment that had shattered Draco's heart.
If there was one thing he'd learned from his mother, it was that the people who seemed the strongest were the ones who were the least likely to ask for help when they needed it the most. They'd let their despair poison them if only to keep their armor from cracking. Lucius had done it. Narcissa had done it. So had Draco.
And their family had perished.
Something possessed him to reach for the back pocket of his trousers. Something unexplainable that told him it was the right thing for him to do. And when his hand closed around it, his heart stopped.
The dream hadn't wanted him to have his wand.
Until now.
The last of his panic ebbed away like the gentle pull of the tide's end. With a steady arm, he pointed his wand at the door to Hermione and Weasley's hotel room.
"Alohomora."
Beep.
The red light above the handle, right where the key was supposed to slide in?
It turned green.
Without hesitation, Draco grabbed the heavy silver handle and turned it, pushing the door open enough for him to sidle into the room. He shut it behind him and locked it without looking.
He heard the thud of her wand dropping. She stood at the end of the bed in a torn dress, covered in scrapes and newly-forming bruises. Blood trickled down the inside of her legs and the sight of it was almost enough to make him lose himself to his rage again.
His heart sank to the depths. He'd been right. It had happened anyway. The dream hadn't let him save her. Even though he wanted to know why, it wasn't time for that.
There it was—the inhuman sound that had haunted his mind for weeks. The high-pitched, keening, guttural wail that left her lips as though it were trying to escape the cage her pain created. She didn't realize he was there yet, but he didn't think to announce his presence.
She collapsed.
He darted forward and threw his arms around her from the side, one hand gripping the elbow of her outer arm and the other wrapped around the front of her abdomen.
"I can't," she sobbed, her body completely leaned against him like a limp rag doll. She was shaking with violence. "I can't, I can't, I—"
"You can," he whispered, using his determination to keep his voice strong. "You can because I'm here now. I've got you. You can."
Either she didn't hear him or she was too emotionally broken to. She kept whispering the words, wailing them as her body continued to pull downward. Draco gave in and sank to the floor with her, knowing that this was what she needed. This—holding her—was the very thing he'd wanted to do.
Her head lolled against his shoulder and she wept, and wept, and wept. She wept tears of grief and shame. Anguish and horror. The tears of having to experience it the first time, and the tears of having to experience it again.
It was just a dream, but Draco cried, too.
She tilted her head back to look up at him, her face devoid of feeling. Without so much as a word, she reached up to wipe the silent tears from his face with her thumbs. Her touch was achingly gentle. His eyelids fluttered shut.
He cleared his throat. "Shower?"
She nodded.
Getting to his feet, he took her by the elbows and guided her to hers. She wobbled on two trembling legs, just like she had the first time, and allowed him to escort her into the bathroom. Hermione stood swaying, catatonic and quiet as Draco handled the water. Last time, she'd made the water ice-cold. This time, it would be warm and comforting.
He turned to face her.
She pulled the straps of her dress down. Her fingers quivered so badly that he had to help her. She reached behind herself to undo the zipper, leaning her forehead against his chest with a dejected sigh. He helped her with that, too.
"Come here," he said in a soft voice, gentle as he batted her hands away. "Let me help."
The zipper slid down and the sides of the dress came open in the back.
"Wait," he said. "Should I leave?"
She shook her head, her chin trembling again. There were tears clinging to her lashes. Draco felt his brow furrowing as he realized that she was about to reveal herself in her entirety to him.
This was a gift that he did not deserve, but that he would not take advantage of.
"It's just . . . A dream," she said, her cracked voice barely much more than a whisper.
The dress fell to the floor at the same speed as the tear that traveled down her cheek.
Draco didn't look. He simply wiped her tear with his finger and helped her with her brassiere and knickers. Holding her hand, he assisted her into the shower, steadying her as she wobbled. He kept his eyes respectfully on her face as he reached up and began to take her hair down.
Then, he took a step back, preparing to shut the curtain.
When it became clear that she wasn't going to wash herself like last time, he drew his shoulders back. Hermione didn't need him standing there, acting like a child. She needed a man who was going to be there for her. If they were bonded to twin stars, then he needed to step up and show her that if they decided to accept that bond, he was going to be able to take care of her.
She was strong, but she didn't have to be.
Fully clothed, he got into the shower.
The water was warm. Scalding, actually, and it seeped into his clothes. It felt odd to be in the shower with them on, but there was no reason for him to make her any more uncomfortable. This was a dream, but it meant something.
Godric, either he was too tall, or she'd gotten shorter over the duration of the dream. He felt like he could completely envelop her if he wanted to. Which he did want to, if only to protect her from being hurt again.
He'd never before felt so violently protective over someone and whether it was the bond or not, he wasn't going to ignore the urge. Not right now.
Hermione dragged her gaze up to meet his, and he locked eyes with her. He didn't look away, even as he lathered up the washcloth with soap. Not even when he began to wash her neck and shoulders. Not when he smoothed the cloth down her arms. Not when he washed her breasts and abdomen. Not when he reached around behind her to wash her back.
He rinsed the cloth and lathered it again.
This was the part he dreaded.
He spoke over the sound of the pounding water, his hair dripping into his eyes. "Do you want me to turn around?"
She shook her head, and then with a shaking hand, took the cloth from him. Her left hand went to his shoulder, light and barely-there as she used him for support. Her eyes squeezed shut as she reached between her legs.
He didn't know if it was because he was there this time or not, but last time, he remembered her being more robotic about it. Now, she was allowing herself to feel the pain.
Which meant that he was helping.
"I can't do this again," she whispered, and he could hear her falling apart. "Not again."
"It's okay, it's okay," he said, words rushing out as he took the cloth from her again. He wrapped his right arm around her, his fingers trailing up the vertebrae of her spine. "Shh. It's all right. I'll help you."
"I'm sorry," she whimpered.
"No, don't be sorry."
He just wanted her to be okay.
Taking a deep breath and steeling himself, he placed his hand on her hip and then crouched down in front of her.
"Okay?" he said, looking up at her.
She placed her hands on his shoulders and nodded, her curly brown hair falling in wet strips to her waist. She looked worried and terrified.
"I have to look, to be able to make sure I get all the blood," he said, keeping his voice low. "Is that all right?"
Another nod.
He forced himself to feel and think nothing as he very clinically and thoroughly washed between her legs. She whimpered from the pain, and it made him want to cry all over again. He wasn't the most sensitive of wizards, but given that he knew exactly how much pain she was in, it wrenched his heart into a knot. That, and watching the blood run crimson down the drain was as nauseating as it was infuriating.
When he put the cloth in the water stream to rinse it out, he heard her whispering.
"One."
For a brief moment, his eyes closed. He remembered.
More soap, and then he washed her again.
"Two."
Yet more soap. More gentle scrubbing. His heart hurt almost as bad as the day his mother died.
"Th-Three." Her voice broke, and she wrangled it back into her control. "Three."
He did as she wanted. When he looked up, her eyes were shut and he couldn't tell if she was crying or if it was just the water.
"Four."
Even though she was clean, he washed her womanhood again.
"Five."
He started to stand, but she pushed on his shoulders.
"Again," she said, voice pleading.
"You're clean," he said, standing anyway and dropping the soiled cloth to the floor of the tub.
"No," she said, shaking her head. "No. I'm not clean, and I always regretted not washing again. I should have—" She swallowed. "I should have kept washing."
"You're . . . Clean," he said, smoothing his hands over her hair and tilting her chin upward.
"I'm not. I'm not and I haven't been and I know it's just a dream. It's just a dream, but I'm not clean. I need you to—"
"Hermione." He lifted his chin and silenced her with the intensity of his gaze. "You. Are. Clean."
A couple of beats passed—a couple of beats of time where Draco wasn't sure what to do. If she asked him again to wash her, he would do it. At this point, he'd do anything for her.
Her face fell and she dissolved into tears again, covering her eyes with her hands. Draco hurried to wrap his arms around her shoulders, cupping the back of her head. He held her while she cried again, feeling the shaking of her shoulders as the sobs wracked her body.
He'd do anything for her.
When he felt the water start to run cold, he let go of her. She sniffled and wiped her eyes while he picked up the shampoo bottle. He didn't say anything as he began to massage it into her head, feeling the slickness of her curls as they slid through his fingers.
How could he ever have hated her hair? It was gorgeous.
Just like the rest of her.
When her hair was properly conditioned and rinsed, he was the first to step out. The bathroom door was open, so he accioed his wand and used it to cast the most powerful drying spell on his sopping wet clothing that he could manage. Then, he grabbed one of the white hotel towels and held it open for her.
Hermione held her arm over her breasts, suddenly modest as she stepped into the circle of his arms. She even let out a soft giggle as he mussed her hair with it, shaking her back and forth.
Music.
It felt important.
Then, after she told him where her suitcase was, he helped her dress in her pyjamas.
They climbed into bed as though it weren't a dream. As though they were on vacation in Paris in a hotel together, surrounded by hideous wallpaper and lying on a mattress that felt like a rock.
The moment she burrowed her head into the crevice of his throat and shoulder, he didn't care about the comfort of the bed any longer.
"Where were you? You weren't on the curb," she whispered. He heard it there—betrayal, sadness, and the unspoken, I called for you.
"I was outside the pub," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. One of his arms was around her back; the other hand traced up and down her forearm, which banded his waist. "I waited, but you guys never came out. Then, I went to the place where you and Weasley were supposed to be and waited forever, but didn't see you. I went to the alley and still, you weren't there. I figured . . . The dream didn't want me there."
"You promised."
His heart clenched. "I know."
She said nothing more.
His guilt seeped into every inch of his body, carrying him into a sleep that he wanted to wake from so the nightmare could be over.
