Apricity – Chapter Twenty

It was Tuesday, the fourth official day of holiday.

She wasn't in his lap when he woke on the couch, groggy and discombobulated. He'd felt her absence almost as acutely as he felt the guilt, still coursing like a river through his head.

If she blamed him for having to relive it again, he would understand.

When he went into the loo to shower, he checked the toilet. Just like when he was younger.

Narcissa's illness had been something that was hidden in plain sight. Lucius was too self-absorbed to notice anything, but Draco was attached to his mother. When he realized she was sneaking off to the kitchens for late night meals, he'd sneak down the stairs after her just to be near her. Narcissa would eat two, three, sometimes as many as five or six meals, use the bathroom between each one, and then make her way slowly back up the stairs. At first, Draco made sure he was back in his room before she did, so that he wouldn't get in trouble.

Draco didn't connect the meals to the loo usage until he was thirteen and she forgot a silencing spell.

He could still hear the sounds of her violet retching if he tried hard enough to remember. He wasn't an idiot—he knew his mother wasn't sick in the physical sense. She was making herself sick, and even though he had no idea why, he knew that it wasn't something she was proud of.

After that, Draco would sneak past the kitchen entryway entirely. He'd sit on the floor against the wall behind the marble statue of his great-great-great-great grandfather and wait. He liked to think it was helpful, so she wouldn't have to be alone.

It was better than trying to figure out why his heart hurt whenever he heard the stairs creak on her way back up to bed. Much better than thinking about the fact that she never cleaned up after herself. When he asked a House Elf about it, they said they'd all been instructed not to—and Draco had realized it was because it was part of it, part of her rebellion.

Much better than thinking about how hard the floor was under his knees when he cleaned underneath the rim of the loo himself.

So when he lifted the lid after Hermione had been in the bathroom, he wasn't thinking about his hurting heart, how messy she might be, or the difference between the floors of the Manor and the floors of the Head dorms. He was thinking about how he was going to fix it all. He was thinking about how he could do better this time.

He was thinking about how he hadn't tried hard enough with Narcissa.

There we no blue flecks under the rim. It was as clean and white as porcelain should be. Either Draco was entirely wrong about Hermione's secret, or she was covering her tracks.

And he really, really wasn't an idiot.

Draco wasn't exactly sure how to help her, but he knew he wasn't going to do anything in secret, behind closed doors like he did for his mother. If he was going to get involved, she was going to know it, and he wasn't going to stop until she was better.

Star bond or not, he wasn't going to watch her hurt herself for another fucking day.

After his shower, he dressed for the day in a light grey jumper that was a bit big on him, a pair of black denims, and then he ruffled his wet hair in the hopes that it would dry in some semblance of style. He looked at himself in the mirror for a second—at his rugged appearance and pale, tattooed skin—and wondered when he'd become so fucking wrecked.

She'd wrecked him.

He wanted to cry at the thought that he not only hadn't been there for her last night, but had been standing idle while she destroyed herself. He was such a fucking failure. Why could he never do anything the right way, even when he was trying to do the right thing? He couldn't save Dumbledore. He couldn't save his father. He couldn't save his mother.

How the fucking fuck am I supposed to save Hermione?

He had a viscous desire to destroy himself, too. To feel the pain of glass shattering and his skin splitting, blood leaking down his fingers.

Fist clenched, he raised it, his face contorting with a combination of anger and self-hatred that he felt burning within him. He pulled his arm back, hesitating.

No.

That was the old Draco.

The new Draco had a lot to think about—a lot to take care of. Just like in the dream the night before, he had to keep in mind that the probability of him being star bonded to her was higher than maybe. It was almost fact. That meant that no matter what course their futures took, they'd be walking their paths together. He had a responsibility to her now.

The old Draco would have cried, hurt himself, and wanted to self-destruct.

Much calmer and more determined, Draco entered the kitchen to get some water and saw that the sink was empty. Frowning, he placed his hands on the edge of the counter and hung his head. It was already lunchtime and if the sink was empty, there were three possibilities.

Either she had washed her dishes this morning, she'd gone to the Great Hall, or she hadn't eaten at all.


Well, this was a good start.

She was sitting at the Gryffindor table for lunch, and there was a plate in front of her. When he entered the Great Hall—which was about one-quarter full as not everyone had left yet—he felt hesitant. Should he go to the Slytherin table as normal, where there were only a few younger students and Theo? Or should he take the risk and go to Gryffindor?

Choices, choices.

He headed to the right, striding towards the Gryffindor table.

Schooling his facial expression to be as indifferent and aloof as possible, he scoped it out. His gaze washed over the other students, seeing how different they were from his own House. In Slytherin, surprisingly, the older and younger years mingled, likely due to the way society life caused their families to know one another outside of school. However in Gryffindor, the students seemed to sit in chronological order, with the oldest students closest to the doors and the youngest closest to the professors' table.

Which made sense, he supposed, when he remembered the Weasley twins and the shenanigans they used to get up to. Sitting by the door made it easier to flee. And with how overzealous Hermione had been when they were kids, she would want to sit as close to the authority figures as possible.

Now, she sat right on the end, even with all the empty space, with her back to the rest of the room.

Draco slid in on her right, staring off at the virtually-empty Hufflepuff table to try and make it seem like he was more interested in them than the fact that he was sitting down at the Gryffindor House table.

He plated himself a sandwich and some sides.

Hermione, who had a book open on the table beside her very full plate, turned to stare at him. He ignored her and began to eat. The silence was so total and absolute that he felt like he was alone in the gargantuan room.

"What?" he said around a mouthful of bread, meat, and cheese.

"Did someone curse you, or are you lost?" Hermione replied. She held her place in her book with her hand.

At this, Draco rolled his head back and gave her a deadpan look. "I'm not under the Imperius, if that's what you mean. And no, I'm not lost. I'm exactly where I want to be."

She narrowed her eyes, searching his for whatever it was she was suspicious of, and then she frowned.

"Ron hasn't left yet—he's not leaving until the next train."

"Did you think I planned on coming over here when he did . . . ? I mean, come on." He scowled and took another bite of his sandwich.

Hermione glanced down the table towards the aforementioned wizard. When she turned back to Draco, she had a sour expression on her face. A sting afflicted his heart. He knew things were bound to be awkward after reliving the memory again, but he didn't think she'd be so revolted by being around him.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

He dropped the sandwich, snatching a napkin out of one of the stone holders on the table. He wiped his hands free of crumbs, the frown on his face so deep that her could feel his forehead wrinkling.

"What?" Hermione said. "I'm just surprised, is all."

"If you don't want me around you, it's fine," he said, pushing his plate away. "Just make sure you eat."

She didn't respond.

He started towards the Slytherin table.

"Wait."

He stopped and looked over his shoulder down at her. "Yeah?"

She was looking at him strangely, with a mixture of irritation and wariness dancing across her features. "Why do you say that? Why are you telling me to make sure I—why are you saying that?"

"Because I am," he said, his gaze washing over the other people around them. The Weaselbee was so absorbed in his breakfast that he hadn't even realized Draco was at the table.

Thank Salazar it was Winter holiday—otherwise the tables would be full and Draco never would have gotten away with sitting there.

"Why?" she said in response to him.

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," she said, lowering her voice as her brows came together on her forehead. "Since when do you care what I eat or when I do it?"

"Since I decided I did," he snapped. He ran his fingers through his hair and looked down at her again, hoping she could see the sincerity in his eyes when he did. For good measure, he leaned down. "I want you to eat. All right?"

She opened her mouth, the sound of her words dying in her throat escaping her lips. The wariness and irritation now faded to something akin to confusion. Without saying anything further, she turned back to face her plate and book.

He sat down at the Slytherin table, keeping his distance from Theo and refusing to look in his direction. Instead, he plated himself another sandwich and set into it, watching Hermione from his place with the eyes of a hawk. Watching as she tried to go back to reading and not touching her plate.

Watching as she closed the book and stared at the plate for a solid five minutes, her leg bouncing as though she had too much energy and nowhere to expend it.

She picked up her sandwich.

Draco held his breath, the food on his own plate forgotten for the moment. Would she go through with it?

He saw her shoulders lift as she took a deep breath.

Draco's heart raced in his chest. It was as anticipatory as when he'd placed that apple in the cupboard in the Come and Go Room, knowing that not only his future, but the future of his mother and father's lives rested upon his shoulders.

And now, it was the same. If he and Hermione were truly bonded to one another, his destiny was intertwined with hers. He had to take care of her if she couldn't take care of herself, otherwise his future was in jeopardy.

Perhaps that wasn't the only reason he cared.

She took a bite of her sandwich.

Hermione took a bite of her sandwich and Draco didn't think he'd ever felt so fucking relieved in his entire life. For a moment, as he watched her scarf down the food, he wondered if he'd been overreacting the entire time. The emptiness left by his mother's death could have caused him to see things that weren't there.

For a moment, he thought she might be okay.

But she ate three more sandwiches, practically inhaling them as though they were liquid. He watched her finish the first, then move on to the second, third, and fourth without stopping for more than the occasional drink out of her cup. And when she got up to leave, she glanced in his direction. The expression she wore on her face was one he'd never seen on his mother's because Narcissa had had no idea that he knew.

Guilt.

He ran his hands down his face, trying to decide what to do. If nothing was wrong, he had no idea where she was headed to. If something was wrong? She was going straight to the loo.

And he had no idea what to do next.

He sat there until the few students left in the castle began to trickle out of the Great Hall. Theo was the first to go, leaving right after Hermione, and he didn't look in Draco's direction.

He wondered if their friendship was over.

Draco went back to the common room, but she wasn't there.

That was odd, given that if she were going to make herself sick, it wouldn't make sense to do it anywhere other than their personal loo. In spite of the guilty look she'd given him, there was nothing to prove that she wasn't well. Everything odd that he'd noticed about her this year—the long bathroom trips, the overeating, the mess, and the short temper—could all be explained by the simplicity of stress. She was an overachieving swot, after all.

Sitting down on the couch, he relaxed into it. He didn't know if it was because this year was exhausting, or if it was because he was on holiday.

Sleep claimed him within minutes.


"I knew I'd find you here."

That was Hermione's voice.

Was she waking him from his nap? Why did she sound so chipper? Earlier, she'd sounded so flat, so . . . Monotone. Draco's eyelids fluttered open to see a sky he knew as well as he knew the blue one in the real world.

It was green.

Hermione stood over him, swathed in white chiffon that floated around her thighs and fell off of her shoulders. Her hair was in hundreds of long braids that swung at her hips. She smiled at him, and it was the most genuine smile he'd seen from her in months.

"What's going on?" he said.

"Took you long enough to wake up," she said with a slight laugh. She clasped her hands behind her back and bit her lower lip, studying him. Then, she said, "Want to go play in the water?"

Draco sat up, feeling the light breeze coming from the west, ruffling his hair and her short skirt. He tried not to focus on the painful body size she'd imagined for herself, wishing there were some way he could imagine her differently. Healthier.

Why was she so fucking happy like this?

"In the water?" He grimaced. "Nah, that's not me."

"But it could be," she said, voice bright as she held her hand out to him. "Come, it'll be fun. Have you never done it before?"

"You think my father would have appreciated a Malfoy dancing on his toes in the ocean? I think not."

"But Lucius isn't here. I am." She tipped her head in the water's direction. "So . . . Let's go."

He eyed her, wanting so badly to sit and wallow in his troubles. His troubles that were also hers. Wanting to sit right there on the hill and talk about Paris.

But she looked so happy.

With a begrudging sigh, he reached up and took her hand. Her skin was warm to the touch, in direct contrast to how cold it should have been. It made his heart ache.

And then they were running.

She let out a high-pitched laugh and pulled him down the hill, running faster than he expected her to go. They headed across the field, crushing the white flowers underfoot as they made their way towards the beach. The closer they got, the easier it became for Draco to leave the hurt behind—the consternation and the worries and the negative feelings—and let go.

Right as they reached the sand, a Devilish grin spread across his face. He let go of her hand and wrapped his arms around her waist. She shrieked his name when he dragged her into the air, her feet clearing the divide between grass and sand, and her hands clutching his forearm. He heard her playful voice pleading with him to put her down, and he did.

Another shriek, and then she was running again.

This time, he chased her, and it was easy. It was easy to let go and live in the dream, to forget about everything else and just go flying after those braids and that beautiful girl. To pretend like they weren't Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. To act like they were just two eighteen-year-olds on the beach.

When he caught up with her, they went careening into the water, falling into the crashing waves and laughing as they were both soaked to the bone. Every time they tried to get up, another wave would come, knocking them down again. It was even easier to laugh and smile, especially when he grabbed her around the waist again. He held her close as they tumbled beneath the surface of the salty water.

Salazar.

Even here, it ached to hold her.

They came up for air, hair dripping and chests heaving, and grinned at one another.

"See?" she said, panting. "Told you it would be fun."

"Yeah, well." He brushed his wet fringe out of his eyes. "You owe me for this."

"What could I possibly owe the great Draco Malfoy, heir to the Malfoy fortune?" she said, leaning forward to gather her braids to one side of her head and twist the water out of them. He watched her, watched the way the moonlight glanced off of her sharp cheekbones, watched her lashes dusting her skin and the gentle curve of her smile.

And she was beautiful.

"Nothing I could afford if it weren't owed," he murmured, looking down into her eyes.

"What's that mean?" she replied, looking perplexed.

"Nothing. Come on."

He took her by the hand again, and they headed for the piece of driftwood that was always there as though positioned perfectly for someone to sit on it. As they walked, droplets of water clinging to his skin and sand sticking to the soles of his feet, he realized that he wasn't cold, either.

They sat down on the wood, each of them wrapping their arms around their knees and gazing out to where the water kissed the sky.

"Where are you?" Draco asked.

"Huh?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her glance in his direction. "I'm here."

"No—I mean out there. Where are you? You weren't in the dorm after lunch."

She averted her gaze, back out to the sea. "I'm in my bed. I was really tired after lunch."

Draco thought back to when he'd returned to the dorm. The loo hadn't been occupied.

Either she wasn't making herself sick and he was fucking mental, or she was and she'd done it in the public restroom. But how had she gotten away with that without anyone coming in? He supposed there were spells, but it seemed like a lot of trouble when she could just use the loo in the dorm.

But perhaps she had used a public loo. Maybe she'd rushed straight there, done the deed, and then went back to the dorm because she wanted to sleep.

Draco remembered his mother falling asleep at the kitchen table one night when he was fifteen. It was the Summer and he remembered it being especially warm that night. The sort of warm that made the skin underneath his arms prickle with sweat—the kind of heat that buzzed. It was late and she'd been in the kitchen almost as soon as the clock struck midnight.

After her fourth trip to the loo, she had seemed lethargic and droopy-eyed, and had folded her arms to use as a pillow by her empty plate. She'd slept there for an hour while Draco watched from the doorway in fear and confusion. She'd awoken, of course, and hadn't caught him behind the statue because he was so quick on his feet.

She'd swayed like a willow branch in the wind on her way back to bed.

Was that what had happened to Hermione? Had she made herself sick and then grown so tired that she simply could not keep her eyes open?

Draco hadn't known the dangers back then, but now—now that Narcissa was gone—he did.

He looked down at her, his legs shaking from the intensity of his emotions. He gritted his teeth against them, scrutinizing her and trying not to imagine what it would be like to have two women die in his arms.

"Granger."

It took her a languorous moment to tear her eyes away from the sea. When they lifted to meet his, they were sparkling.

"Hm?" she said.

"If your heart feels tired . . . Will you promise to tell me?"

She appeared confused. "Okay."

He closed his eyes for a moment. It didn't feel any better.

"Draco."

"Hm?"

"What do you see when you look at me?"

His heart skipped a beat, stuttering in his chest as it caught up with his mind. Something about the way she said the words—fear draped in innocent delivery—made him think she was looking for a specific answer.

"I see . . ." He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Earlier this year, I would have said I saw a swot with a superiority complex."

She gave him a sharp look. "And now?"

"I see . . ." He met her eyes, searching deep down into them as he tried to sense what he could possibly say to assuage her. She wanted an answer. She wanted to know what he thought of her.

Did his opinion matter?

"Ah, nevermind," she said, the sudden irritation in her voice shattering the spell. She dropped her chin to her folded arms. "It was a silly question."

"Silly? No—I was just thinking of what to say." He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

"It was silly."

"It really—"

"It was stupid, all right?" she cried, glaring at the empty air in front of her. "I shouldn't be asking you questions like that. It's too much, too familiar. And what happens if we find out the bond isn't real, or that its reversible?" She looked crestfallen as she tilted her head up to the starlight. "We don't need to be getting familiar when without a bond, we're so . . . Unfamiliar."

"Hermione," he said, voice sharp enough to draw her gaze to his. He placed his hand on her shoulder, pretending not to notice the fact that he could feel her bones jutting into his skin when he did. "There's nothing wrong with making the best of what you've got. We wouldn't be able to walk each other's dreams if we weren't bonded, and you know that, so you might as well accept it. Accept what your life is. Accept that you're bonded to me in some way, shape, or form, and accept that it's okay for us to be familiar."

"Easy for you to say." She was stiff beneath his touch, and her jaw was tight.

"What is?" he said, his anger rising a bit. "Thinking it's okay?"

"Practicing acceptance," she spat. "You accept what you've got and it doesn't overwhelm you. It doesn't feel like this—this giant ball of darkness, constantly hovering in the back of your mind." She reached up to touch the back of her head, her frown so deep that it looked carved. "If I accept any part of my life—including this bond—I'm afraid I'll completely . . ."

She trailed off and if it weren't for the way her voice shook, he would have thought she hated the sand from how intently she glared at it.

"I'm afraid I'll fall apart," she finished.

"Why? You know who you are. You've always known who you were, which is more than I can say for myself. I didn't know who I was until the war. Why pretend like it's hard for you to figure it out now?"

"Because you're wrong." They looked at one another. "You're wrong about me. I don't know who I am. I know who I am to the world—the Golden Girl, savior of the wizarding world, and brains behind the Golden Trio." The bitterness in her tone dripped like molten rock. "I know who I am to Harry and to Ron. I know what everyone sees when they look at me, and—"

"How do you know that?"

"What?" She appeared taken aback, like his interruption of her rant had thrown her for a loop.

"How do you know what everyone sees when they look at you?" Draco put his hands on the large driftwood surface beneath them, leaning back. He stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles. "Unless you're practicing Legilimency, you can't possibly know what they think."

"Yes, I can. They're my friends. I know exactly what they think about me."

"No, you can't." He raised his eyebrows. "You think you can because they're your friends, and you're asking me what I think of you because you don't know me as well. You can't read me like one of your books—not the way you can read your friends."

"And you know me?" Her breathing hitched, and he knew he'd hit a nerve. He knew because she jumped to her feet. "I suppose that's why I said it was stupid of me to ask you that question, given I already know the answer!"

It took him a second to realize she was walking away.

Draco scrambled to his feet, turning to watch as she slipped and stumbled across the loose grains.

"You don't know the answer, and that's the point, Granger!" he shouted, feeling his temper snap like a brittle, charred branch. "You can't know everything about everything, and you can't know what other people think of you, and—"

He cut himself off. Realization dawned so suddenly that it nearly bowled him over. Hermione kept stomping off, yelling things back at him that he could hardly hear but for the crashing of the waves against the beach.

Draco took off after her, catching her right as she stepped onto the grass.

"That's the problem, innit?" he asked, turning her to face him. "You like to tell yourself that you know what everyone's thinking of you because it gives you some sort of control over your life. But you know deep down that you can't—that any idea you have could be completely wrong at its foundation. They're your friends. They'll lie to you."

"That's not—"

"But I won't." He smiled, but it was out of sheer incredulity. Keeping his fingers wrapped tight around her upper arm, he pressed on. "I won't lie to you, because you so deeply believe I despise you that I have no reason to lie to you. You want to hear what I see because you think I'll tell you I see someone repulsive."

She said nothing, and the silence rang in his ears. But he could see it there—could see her faltering. Could see the resolve within them beginning to crumble and shatter and fold in on itself. Her chin tilted down toward her chest as the guard she worked so hard to keep up came down for him.

Again.

"I know you do," she said, voice soft. "And I want to hear you say it so I can feel right."

"Why?"

"Because I want to hear it."

"Hear what?!" he said, eyebrows shooting upward. "That you're repulsive?!"

"Aren't I?" she cried, and then she ripped her arm away from him. "Aren't I? I'm messy and I'm rude and I'm conceited. Oh, I'm so conceited. I completely and utterly think that I'm Godric's gift to the Earth, and I have always lived my life that way. I have always walked the halls of Hogwarts thinking I'm the best witch in centuries, and when I would go home, I was the only witch in centuries. I wanted to be the best because I am the best, and I—I—"

"And you've been trying to prove that to everyone for the past seven years."

She looked up at him, her face pinched. She tried again and again to say something but had been rendered speechless.

So he spoke for her, his hand sliding down to hold her elbow gently. He ducked his head down to hold her gaze before it fell to the ground again.

"You've been trying to prove it to everyone, because you don't really think you're the best, do you?" Her chin quivered. "You think you're the worst. You think you're the absolute worst. And you think if anyone found out how awful a person you really were, that no one would want to talk to you or be your friend. Because if you really were the best person you could possibly be—the Golden Girl—you wouldn't have gotten attacked in that alley. You would have been able to handle it."

She turned her face away, but he shook her gently.

"And you want to hear me say you're repulsive because the satisfaction hurts in the best sort of way—knowing that you were right, even when being right means you hate yourself."

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Sound about right?"

She opened her eyes again, tears swimming in them.

"I'm tired of crying, Draco," she whispered. "I can't. Not here. Not here. It's supposed to be safe."

Draco gripped her other elbow. Her head fell back. A tear slid down her cheek.

"It is safe, Hermione. With me, you're always gonna be safe."

Her face screwed up as she fought them for another moment. Then, like a volcano, she erupted. The tears fell out of her the way they always seemed to do, and she buried her face in her hands. Her body, so frail in the dream world, was easy for him to pull against himself. He wrapped his arms around her, pain coursing through him when his fingers touched his own waist.

Why was she doing this to herself?

Draco held Hermione while she wept. Again. And he would continue to do it again and again and again. As many times as it took her to cry all of the tears. Because now, as he stood here underneath an emerald green sky studded with the silver stars of his dreams, he knew that he wanted to be there the moment she ran out of tears to cry.

He wanted to be the first one to see the way the smile finally reached her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said after a few minutes, extricating herself to wipe her eyes. "I just—can we just sit down?"

"All right. Back on the driftwood?"

She looked around, her gaze settling on the vast field with its flowers and shifting grass. "Let's lie in the flowers. I've always wanted to do that, and I don't want to wake up yet."


Draco followed her for a while, until she came to a place she seemed to like and collapsed to the Earth.

Hermione laid on her back, so he followed suit, lying beside her. It was a soft beneath his back, and he felt the flowers around him tickling his face. Draco pulled his sleeves down over his hands and rested them behind his head.

Above them stretched the stars for miles and miles. Lying here, trapped in a dream with the person he might be spending the rest of his life with, it felt like they were the only two people in the entire universe. They were small and insignificant. Their trials and tribulations meant nothing compared to the black holes that ate the cosmos, and the galaxies that swirled for eternity.

"I've always liked looking at the stars," Hermione said in a muted tone. Her braids fanned out like a halo around her head and her hands rested on her stomach. One curved over her ribcage while the other was positioned over her belly. "I never felt a calling to Astronomy career-wise, but I've always loved the way the skies look when there's nothing else around. Nothing to pollute the light with shadows. It makes me think of when I was kid."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes, my—my father used to draw the curtains for me at night so I could fall asleep while I—like, looked at them you know." She rolled her head to look at him. "I memorized Orion's Belt the fastest."

Draco rolled his head to look at her, too. "Of course you did. It's the easiest one to spot."

She wrinkled her nose. "I know."

Half of his mouth curved upward, and they both looked back up at the sky again.

"What about you?" she asked with a sigh. "What's Draco's favorite constellation? I think it's probably his own, given the fact that he's the most pompous wizard in all of Britain."

"Shut up," he said, cracking another half-smile. "And you like the simplest of them all—what does that say about you?"

"So, I was right! Draco is your favorite constellation. How positively droll."

"No, Smart One," he snapped, resisting the urge to elbow her in the side. He didn't want to hurt her. "My favorite constellation is Scorpius."

"Hm," she hummed. "Why?"

"Because it's near the center of the Milky Way, and I like to be the center of everyone's attention."

They burst out laughing, sharing the joke amongst one another like old friends. Her laugh was musical, lilting like a unique song—a song he felt like he was hearing for the first time.

"I've never liked being the center of attention," she said, her amusement slow to fade. "The Yule Ball was a nightmare for me. All that make-up, the fluffy fabrics. And the dancing."

"You don't like dancing?"

"Oh, Godric no," she groaned. "It's ghastly. Viktor was an excellent dancer, but I was not. And I felt like everyone was watching me."

In Draco's mind, he saw periwinkle and the flickering of flame against the wall in the alcove. He felt her lips on his as if it were yesterday.

"They were."

"They were what?"

Their eyes met again, as if on cue.

"Watching you," he said. "Everyone was."

She arched one eyebrow, giving his face a once-over. "Even you?"

"Even me."

Her lips twisted and then she looked up again. "Well, I'd say that was my peak moment, then. The entire student body, watching me. Now, I've lost my looks. Whatever is a witch to do?"

Draco breathed a laugh. "Lost your looks? Oh, yes, because you were fourteen going on seventy-five. Wrinkling already."

"I don't look seventy," she muttered, "but I've certainly lost whatever looks I may have had."

His smile disappeared. "Wait, what?"

"I mean, I was never really that pretty, per se, but whatever I did have is just—" she weaved a hand in the air above her, as though wiping the sky free of stars. "—gone."

He lifted himself onto his elbows. "Are you serious? Are you being serious right now?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm not blind, Draco. I know how ugly I am."

Draco thought he was going to pass out.

What the ever-loving fuck?

"Hermione," he spluttered. "You're not ugly."

"Yes, I am!" she cried, moving her hands up to feel different parts of her face. "My forehead is too big. My nose is horrific the way it tilts the way it does. My skin looks awful—it's so dry and patchy. My lips are too—too pouty. Like, they turn down when I'm not smiling and it makes me look unapproachable. And my—around my jaw right here—is so puffy. And the underside of my chin is bloated and it—" She massaged the nonexistent flesh underneath her jaw. "—is too much. There's too much of it. It's like I don't even have a chin at all. It's no wonder you used to say I looked so hideous. You weren't wrong. I just—" She held both hands over her stomach. "I feel like it's crawling inside of me."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—" He tangled his fingers in his hair and sat up fully. "What the fuck? What the actual fuck?"

"What?"

Draco felt his mind spinning, and he didn't know why. Of all the things he thought Hermione might think of herself, all of that . . . That nonsense was not something he could have predicted. And it made him angry. Was she absolutely blind? None of what she'd said was true!

"Hermione, you'd better not ever let me hear you say that shite again. I'm serious."

She sat up. "What?"

"All of that? Stupidest things I have ever heard you say."

"Stupid." Hermione let out a mirthless laugh. "Right."

A spike of panic.

He backtracked.

"It's just that . . . You're not ugly. And it's just—it's ridiculous that you think that about yourself. First of all, your forehead is balanced for your face shape. Your nose is unique and it's cute as fuck the way it tilts like that. Your skin being dry has nothing to do with the way you look, and it's just skin. I happen to like the way your lips pout, and you know what?" He darted forward, slamming his lips against hers to prove a point. They smacked as he gave her a peck and straightened his back again. "They serve their purpose, so come off it."

She scoffed, holding the tips of her fingers to her lips. "That had nothing to do with the bond?"

"No. It didn't," he said through gritted teeth. In her face, he saw an openness that he hadn't seen before. Like he'd cracked a code and spread her open. Now that she was sitting here, susceptible to his words and his opinions, he felt like words he'd been holding in were spilling out of him.

"And another thing—I'm not gonna tell you that you repulse me just to satisfy some sick, twisted voice in your head that's telling you do. Does it tell you that you're ugly? Well, you're not. Does it say your forehead is too big, or your nose is weird? It's wrong. You're fucking beautiful, Hermione. Do you get that? You're fucking beautiful to me, and I won't let you use me to convince yourself otherwise.

"So, to answer your stupid bloody question: I see you. When I look at you, I just see you. And I always have." He felt like he was sinking into the flowers, but it was the most honest he'd ever been in his entire life. "Forget whatever I said when I was younger. I was the one who was stupid. And after Third Year, you meant something to me, I just didn't know what."

"Just stop," she said, ripping out a clump of white gardenias and tossing them aside. Her expression had soured. "Stop lying. I get that things are different now, but you don't need to lie."

Draco's head was on its way to implosion. He was so sure in that moment that he was going to throttle her that it scared him. His head snapped to look down at her and she flinched—perhaps terrified of the same thing.

"Have you gone absolutely fucking mental?!" he shouted.

Her eyes flashed in the greenish glow from the sky. "I can recognize that you think that, but I don't see it! When I look in the mirror, I don't see anything I like, so why should I pretend I do just to make a man feel comfortable? Why do I have to care about everyone else's comfort all the time?!" Her voice rose higher, growing into more of a whine as she went. "What about me? Why's it so bad when I admit that I'm not comfortable with who I am or the way I look? Why can't I just say I think I'm ugly to the person I trust without him getting angry with me?!"

Draco blinked.

Wait.

"You trust me?"

"Yes, so why don't you just let me think I'm ugly and get over it!"

A silence stretched thick and electric between them. The absurdity of her words hit them at the same time.

They began to laugh. Their laughter intensified every time their eyes met, until there were tears streaming down Hermione's face again. Until Draco's stomach hurt from laughing so hard. Until Hermione was fanning herself from howling.

Until Draco's heart wanted to burst from how much he liked to hear her laugh.

"You're not ugly," he said, a bit breathless. "You can think it all you want, but I won't."

Her eyes twinkled and her smile was small. It was small, but it was present. That mattered to him.

It was there.

Suddenly, she perked up with a gasp.

"Do you want to roll down one of the hills?"

"Huh?"

"Did you do nothing fun growing up? Come on!"

She got up and took off like a loose hex, dashing towards the nearest hill. He sighed and followed her, no longer sure if he entirely liked Hermione when she was happy. She was too fond of exercise.

He'd had fun when he was growing up, but not the sort he probably should have.

When they got to the top of the hill, she laid down horizontally, gesturing for him to follow suit. After she explained to him what to do, he laid down, stretching out with his head near her feet. Like she'd told him to, he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Ready?" she said, excitement woven through her voice like golden thread. "On the count of three. One . . . Two . . . Go!"

Draco and Hermione rolled at the same time, letting gravity pull them down the hill like wayward logs. Over and over and over, Draco's body rolled. His stomach flipped and his head spun and it was the most fun he'd had in ages. It felt like he was floating. He heard Hermione shrieking with delight, felt his own heart leaping up towards the stars that flickered in his vision every time he rolled upright, and he laughed again.

When they finally came to a stop in a thick smattering of gardenias, they laid there to catch their breath. He felt her foot pressing into the top of his shoulder, but he was too exhausted to move. Once again, they looked up at the stars.

"Draco," she said, "do you remember what we do together here in our dreams?"

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough from how loud he'd been laughing.

"Because you never say anything about it when we wake up. Like, I get worried it doesn't mean anything to you."

"I could never forget anything I do with you."

And he meant that.

"But does it mean anything to you?" she said. "Do I . . . Do I mean anything to you?"

Draco's brow furrowed and he closed his eyes. His mind went white as he lost himself to his thoughts and the feeling of his heart pounding back to a normal rate. His chest rose and fell, ribcage expanding with the circumference of his lungs.

He breathed.

It was because he could lie beside her and just breathe that he knew she meant something to him.

"Are you listening to me?" she said, her voice sounding faraway. "It feels like you're not listening to me. Are you—"

"Granger."

She stopped mid-sentence. He pushed himself to sit up, turning to look at her over his shoulder. His gaze washed over her appearance—her braids splayed out across the white petals, his lips parted as she continued to catch her breath, her eyes half-lidded from this vantage point, and the way her hands rested beside her head as though she'd thrown them there.

He was stricken.

"What?" she said.

Draco rolled so he was on all fours. Without removing his eyes from hers, he grabbed her by the ankle and dragged her downward with her hands still by her head. She gasped but didn't move to stop him. Her eyes tracked his movements as he hesitantly placed his left hand beside her right hand in the grass. His left knee brushed her waist as he hovered partially over her.

"What?" she said again, her head pulling back as much as it could in the grass.

He grabbed her chin with his right hand, holding her head in place. Slowly, gaze flickering up and down from her eyes to her lips—those pouty lips he liked so much—he lowered his head. The fingers of his left hand curled into the grass right as their lips touched. He felt her sucking her breath in.

His eyelids fluttered closed.

When he pulled back, she looked like she'd forgotten how to breathe.

"I'd dream forever if you were here with me,"

He kissed her again and it ignited a flame between them.

Draco felt his heart lurching forward, rising to meet hers as her hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him closer. She kissed him with a tentative mouth, in direct juxtaposition to the hungry way her hands grasped for him. Swinging his knee over until he was straddling her, looming over her in a way that felt protective due to the sheer difference in their sizes, he felt his stomach twisting into a tight, desperate knot. His hand drifted from her chin down to the column of her throat, resting there with a light touch and a finger tapping a silent tune against her pulse.

Hermione's back arched.

He turned his head and deepened a kiss that already felt as deep as his dreams would allow him to go. His tongue slipped between her pliant lips, tasting the inside of her mouth like it was the first time. Sensuality drove him onward, urging him to kiss her harder. Deeper. Faster. Until their bodies were pressed together in the grass, undulating like the waves of the sea. He heard a small feminine sound in the back of her throat and it sent his mind whirling through celestial spaces.

The sounds she made.

Draco's hands drifted down the sides of her waist, one gripping her hip and pinning her down while the other hand curved around the back of her bare thigh. Even in dreams, her skin was as soft as the gardenia petals they were now laying in. He pulled her leg up against his own hip and ground against her center. It was bold and it was unnecessary and it felt good.

After what they'd just had to endure again, it was selfish and it was wrong.

He froze.

But she moaned.

She moaned into his mouth, where he devoured the sound and renewed the vigor of his kiss. His fingers dug into the flesh on her thigh as his lips trailed across her cheek to the spot that made her cry out the loudest. They grazed her earlobe and he felt her shuddering beneath him, her hands twisting in the fabric of his jumper. Her face fell to the side, exposing the entire side of her head to him.

He attacked her with teeth and tongue, his heart pounding as desire pulsed through his veins. Her panting grew heavier, punctuated by more small moans, and then he sucked at the skin beneath her earlobe. Hard.

"Oh—my God."

She cried out, strangled and echoing. Her hips jerked, and then began to rock, canting up to press harder against his. Draco wrapped some of her braids around his hand, letting go of her thigh so he could keep her right where he wanted her.

Because this was his dream, and here, she was his.

"That feel good?" he murmured, nose brushing her jaw. "Hm? Does it feel good when I kiss you?"

"Yes," she gasped when his tongue laved over her pulse and his lips pressed to the wet skin. "It's so good. It's—"

She broke off with another choked noise when he paid more attention to her pulse than either of them could handle. Her body writhed beneath him, her hands seeming confused—like they couldn't decide between pushing against his chest and curling into the hair at the base of his head. And when she gave that hair a sharp tug, a chill rippled down his spine and caused his eyes to roll.

"Fuck," he half-breathed, half-laughed. It felt good, to feel her heat rising to meet him where he wanted her the most. It felt like they were dancing the only sort of dance he liked to do. "I want you so fucking bad."

His hips moved to meet hers, as though they weren't completely clothed in a flower field beneath a sky made of dreams. He covered her throat again, squeezing slightly as he kissed along her shoulder. The strap of her dress fell down. The taste of her skin stretched across her collarbone was divine.

She hooked her leg around the back of his thigh, her foot dragging down to the crease of his knee and using it to anchor herself and she drove her hips up harder. It distracted him from kissing her, and he tore the grass out in his haste to put his left hand on her hip. He was going to stop her—to slow her down before things got too out of hand, even here—but then she whimpered.

"It—it feels so r-real, Draco. Oh, Godric—it feels so—so real."

The words fell from her lips like pleas.

She was pleading with him.

His stomach twisted tight, clenching so hard that he thought he might cry. He had to hold himself back. No matter what, he couldn't go too far with her. He couldn't. It would hurt her. It was too soon. She wasn't thinking clearly, and neither was he.

It was the bond. It had to be the bond. It was—

He felt her core through the fabric of her knickers and his trousers. He felt it as though it were wrapped around him. A jolt of something unexplainable rocketed through him as she tightened her leg around his, practically holding him in place while she ground against the same spot over and over and over and over.

so fucking good.

She was breathing words out, the whispers falling from her lips as though the stars themselves were raining down around them. He looked at her face for a brief moment—at her beautiful face—and saw the desperation there. Like something from another universe altogether.

Nothing existed outside of this place.

His lips claimed hers again. They snogged as though they were just two teenagers with way too many hormones. Bodies writhing and rolling, holding each other tight enough to meld their bones together. He was so hard it ached. She was so close she was keening. It was absurd and it was nonsensical.

It was everything.

"Hermione, look at me," he groaned, hovering above her with his forearm flat on the ground to put enough distance between their faces. The movement of her lower body stuttered as she cracked her eyes open and took a shaky breath. "No—don't stop. Just look at me."

She immediately resumed her movements, but now that he could see into her eyes, he could feel her trepidation. It floated around them, heavy as fog.

"It's just a dream," he murmured, voice gentle. "Okay? It's just a dream."

Her hips found the spot again—the one that made her whine—and she relocated her earlier rhythm. Her breathing grew heavier, causing their chests to meet when she inhaled.

"You want me to touch you?" he murmured, his lips near her ear. "You won't have to work as hard."

She swallowed, and he heard it. "On the . . . Outside."

"Yeah?" He reached over to push his sleeve up to his elbow. He saw her gaze flit over his tattoos.

"Yes. It's just a dream."

He kissed her pulse, tasting her heartbeat as his fingers crept underneath the hem of her white dress. Her breathing hitched once again and stayed suspended. The closer he drew to her, the more her back arched toward him. She exhaled in a groan the moment his touch found her center, touching her over her knickers.

They were soaked through.

"Fuck," he cursed again, and then he pressed harder against her softness. "Fuck, you're so wet for me, you know that?"

Her answer was a sweet, stammering moan.

Draco found the apex of her core through the fabric, feeling her nerves as easily as though they were awake. Her leg, which was still by his right hip, fell open and laid flat on the grass. Her body went limp beneath him as he played with her, never once straying beneath her knickers.

"You like it slower or faster?" he whispered, voice hoarse as he looked down to watch what he was doing. "Huh? Tell me. Tell me so I can make you come."

Her fingers dug into the back of his neck.

"Faster," she replied, "but gentler."

"Like this?"

"I—oh—yes! Yes, there! Like that!"

She threw her head back, her upper back completely lifting off of the ground and Draco touched her exactly the way she liked. She was so wet—beyond wet—and Salazar, fuck did he want her. He wanted all of her for the rest of eternity, right here, right beneath the stars. And good Godric, if he could make her come undone just like this—just fucking like this—he would lose it.

"Come on," he growled between light kisses to the hollow of her exposed throat. "Come on, you can do it. That's it, grind down. Grind down."

Her face screwed up and her body went rigid. He looked up at her through his lashes as she moved her hips to follow his instructions. No matter how gentle he was, she moved her hips harder. He knew better than to switch anything up now.

Not when she was so close.

"Draco," she squeaked out. "Draco—I can't—I'm going to—"

"Yeah?"

"Please," she groaned, her head so far back that he could hardly see her face anymore. "Please, please, please, please—Oh, Jesus Christ."

He knew enough from Muggle Studies to know who Jesus was.

Hermione shattered for him moments later, her muscles convulsing and a series of tapered moans singing out into the night air when she did.

"That's right," he growled. "Good girl. That's it, come for me just like that."

She whimpered. Her legs closed around his body as the sensations overwhelmed her, but he kept touching her until she couldn't take it anymore. She reached between them and wrapped her hand around his wrist.

She opened her eyes and the moment he looked into them, he broke. Draco covered her lips with his own in a kiss that was ten times more frenzied than the last. Dream or otherwise, he would never be able to get the image of her face when she came out of his mind. He would never stop cherishing that sort of trust. After everything that had happened to her, she'd felt safe enough with him to let him touch part of her like that.

Something felt off.

She gasped. The colors were fading. Green to grey. Always grey.

He heard something—a new sound. Was it coming from the beach?

Draco lifted his head and glanced behind him, placing his hands on either side of her in the flowers to keep himself upright. He felt her hands slipping beneath his jumper, feeling the bare skin on his abdomen.

Nothing but the waves crashing.

"Draco."

He turned back to her, seeing the way the stars burned in her eyes. They kissed again, just as frenetic with need as before, but this time, it didn't feel right.

It didn't feel real anymore.

"It's just a dream."

It felt like a dream.

There it was again. The sound.

He pulled away and looked behind him. The sea was there, a tidal wave hundreds of kilometers high rearing up over them. Panic exploded in his chest as the ocean began to arch downwards. He looked down, not knowing how to protect her.

She was gone.

The water crashed over him.


Draco woke.

He could hear a scraping sound in the kitchenette. There was an ache in his neck from having fallen asleep on the couch sitting upright. The lights on the bare Christmas tree provided hardly enough illumination for him to see by, the curtain having been drawn shut on what was already a dark grey snow day. He was so tired that he was contemplating drifting off again.

The sound came again, and his eyes snapped back open.

"Is that you?" he called.

"Yes," she said. "I'm making a snack."

He groaned and stretched. Getting to his feet, he ambled over to the light.

Sure enough, it was Hermione, and she was standing at the stove. There was a pot of noodles in some sort of red sauce on the burner, and she was stirring it with a wooden spatula. She'd changed into an oversized hooded jumper colored white, and she wore the hood up over her unruly curls. Her legs were clad in pink trackies and her eyes looked tired.

"No wand?" he asked, leaning against the wall. "You know you could charm that to stir itself."

"It's okay," she mumbled. "Did you sleep well?"

"I suppose. Did you?"

"I napped," she said, and he saw her cast him a sidelong glance.

"What time is it?"

"Almost 2. We only slept for an hour or so."

"Ah."

He wondered if she wanted to talk about the dream. What if that's all it was, was a dream? What if all the heartfelt things they'd shared, the things they'd talked about, weren't real? What if it was all a figment of his imagination?

How terrifying.

A yawn escaped him.

"Well, it appears I'm still right fucking knackered," he mumbled.

"So, go back to sleep," she said, her tone somewhat clipped. He looked at her sharply, but she continued to talk. "I'll wake you for dinner."

"All right." He pushed away from the wall, eyeing her for a second more. Did she remember?

She looked up at him from under the hood, lips pouty and eyes wide. "What?"

"Nothing." Then, he lifted his chin. He knew one way to see if she remembered anything about the dream. "You just look beautiful."

She stared at him like a doe for a second and then she ducked her head down to focus on stirring the boiling noodles. "Is that the bond talking, or is it you?"

"Does it matter?"

". . . Yes."

He turned to go.

"We can't know everything, remember?" she said, and he stopped walking. "That's the hard part of accepting our lots in life."

She remembered.

"Yeah," he said, his heart fluttering like butterfly wings. "Practicing acceptance. It's hard, but it doesn't have to be lonely. So, if I tell you I think you look beautiful, don't question where it comes from. Just accept the compliment."

He heard her scoff and start to speak, but he interrupted her.

"Even if you think I'm lying."

He went to his room and collapsed in bed fully clothed. Whatever happened in the dream, he'd deal with it all later. Right now, he just wanted to sleep.

Maybe he could dream of her the normal way this time.


Draco woke for the third time that day.

His bedroom was even darker than before he fell back to sleep, and he was groggier than Hell. His head pounded, throbbing with a dull ache. His stomach rumbled, curling in his hunger. He sat up, swinging his feet to place them flat on the floor.

He hadn't dreamt of anything at all, which was surprising for him. Even before Hermione could enter his dreams, he always dreamed of something. Of her.

And he'd been hoping for a glimpse of her smile again.

Draco glanced at the clock. It was nearly time for supper, and good Salazar, was he starved. He felt the dismay he felt when he woke up too early for his wand alarm, but not early enough to go back to sleep. He was exhausted after nights of such vivid dreams, and if it weren't for how hungry he was, he'd just go back to sleep.

He was going to sit with Hermione at dinner, he'd decided. Even if they couldn't talk frankly about the dream or the Paris memory at the table, he was hoping she'd open up to him if she spent more time with him. They needed to discuss it so they could figure out how to avoid it next time, if there even was a next time.

But first, he needed to use the loo.

Draco crossed the hallway, releasing one final yawn of sleepiness as he went. He combed his fingers through his hair and opened the door.

His heart leapt up into his throat.

"Oh—fuck," he said. "I didn't know you were . . ."

He trailed off.

It was occupied by someone who'd either forgotten to lock the door, or who'd thought she didn't need to.

She should have locked the door.

Hermione was in the loo, on the linoleum floor worshipping a god made of porcelain. She was on her knees with her forearm braced along the seat. The fore, middle, ring, and pinkie fingers on her right hand were sliding out of her mouth.

Covered in vomit.

It was on her chin, smeared across her lips and the lower halves of her cheeks. It had clumped beneath her nails. It riddled her fingers and the back of her hand. Red sauce and chunks of noodles dripping down her bare arm—which was exposed because she'd rolled her sleeve up—and into a toilet full of her sick. The entire room reeked of acid and pasta.

His mind flashed to the fear that had plagued him for years—the fear that had kept him staying up night after night on the stairs. The fear that pushed him to hide behind the statue outside the kitchen at the Manor.

Was this what his mother had looked like?

"I'm sorry," Hermione gasped out, and then she coughed. Looking mortified, she drew the back of her clean hand across her mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Tears of panic and anxiety stung at his eyes and without a word to her, he turned and headed for the portrait.


2/9/2021 - Okay, I am stopping the uploads for the day! I uploaded 20 today, and I will upload the other 20 tomorrow. Unless I get a burst of energy later, then I'll upload them tonight.

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