A/N: heavier than normal trigger warning on this chapter! For ED talk.


Apricity - Chapter Twenty-One

He was angry.

Draco knew he shouldn't be—he didn't want to be—but he was.

It was the sort of anger that started like a tiny flame in his chest, growing hotter and brighter the more the scene that ignited it replayed. As he stormed down the corridor with no direction other than away in mind, he felt the flames licking along his limbs and scorching his fingers. He could feel his magic crackling in and out of every pore on his body, so powerful that it felt overwhelming. Like there was nowhere to go and no one to turn to to get reprieve.

The last time he felt this angry, he was trapped in Paris.

That scared him.

In a haze of red, he found himself outside in the courtyard, taking deep breaths of the crisp Winter air. It was so quiet that it was maddening.

He scrubbed his face with his hands, dragging them up and through his hair as he paced back and forth in front of one of the Grecian stone pillars.

Why was she doing this? Why did it have to be him? Why couldn't the universe or whoever had linked them together have chosen some other witch for him to be connected to?

Draco was tired of being given burdens that he simply couldn't handle. He cared too much, but wasn't strong enough to fix anything. He never had been strong enough to accomplish anything. To save anything. To save anyone.

He couldn't save Headmaster Dumbledore.

Couldn't save his godfather.

Couldn't save his mother.

He wasn't going to be able to save Hermione.

Godric, fuck, he was going to lose it.

With a loud cry of frustration, Draco slammed his clenched fist into a cracked part of the pillar. He felt the skin splitting, protesting in agony as it peeled away from his muscle and began to leak blood. It painted his fingers with his ire.

Draco shook his hand out, watching the fluid stain his black knuckle tattoos red, and fought against the ache in his throat. He couldn't stop his mind from projecting the horrific image of her on her knees in that bathroom, covered in sick and apologizing like she'd done the worst possible thing she could do.

He didn't know how to tell her—to—to show her that she hadn't done anything wrong to him. She was just hurting herself, and if she kept on hurting herself, she'd end up just like his mother.

He didn't want that, and it had nothing to do with the possibility of a bond.

"Draco?"

Draco's shoulders jumped and he looked over his shoulder.

Theo stood there, hands tucked underneath his arms against the cold. He was beneath the archway of the castle entrance, like he didn't want to venture too far. Which made sense, since it was freezing.

"Oh, fuck. It's you." Draco pulled his wand out of his pocket and healed himself, and then he turned to face him. "Scared me."

Theo's lips quirked, but there was a wariness in his eyes. "You always did scare easily."

Draco snorted. A shiver rippled through him, but he didn't move. It felt like his feet had been sewn to the ground, roots winding their way deep into the Earth between the stones. He wasn't quite sure how to interact with Theo, as things had been so tense between them for the past month.

"What did the pillar do?" Theo asked after a moment.

"What do you mean?"

"You punched it. What did it do to you?"

Draco rubbed the back of his neck with Winter-numb fingers. "Nothing, for now. But in this castle, you never know. Bloody thing's alive."

"Yeah," Theo said with a breathy laugh. He crossed his arms tighter. "But I know you well enough to know it's not the pillar."

"No," Draco said. "It's not the pillar."

It was silent for a minute or so. Draco clenched his teeth against their need to chatter, and resisted the urge to pull out his wand and cast a warming charm. If Theo wasn't going to warm himself, then neither was he.

But Salazar, did Draco want to talk about it with someone.

"It's Granger," he said, biting his lip and averting his gaze to the far side of the courtyard. He felt like he could still see Potter dashing past the pillars over there, shooting hexes at the Dark Lord over his shoulder.

In many ways, the war had yet to leave the castle.

"What about her?" Theo's eyes narrowed a fraction and just like that, the tension pulled taut. He took a nonchalant step toward him, descending one step.

Draco's gaze returned to him. "She's just surprised me with something, is all."

"Surprised you?" Theo descended another step. "Surprised you in what way?"

Draco opened his mouth, but his own pride wrenched the words back. He didn't want to tell him. It felt like handing something extremely valuable over, even though Theo was supposed to be his best mate. He didn't know what sort of friendship Hermione had with Theo, but he didn't think Theo should be privy to this.

Why was he so bent on keeping the information to himself?

Because she's mine.

"Surprised you in what way?" Theo repeated, a curtness entering his tone that made Draco forget all about the cold.

Draco straightened his spine so that he towered over Theo even from a distance.

"She's a witch that's full of surprises," he drawled. "It can be infuriating."

Theo arched one eyebrow. "Infuriating enough to punch a pillar?"

"Yeah."

Theo nodded slowly. "Well, witches aren't all as easy as you paint them to be. Some have a bit more value than you've previously placed upon them."

Draco's anger spiked. What was that supposed to mean?

"Granger's not easy, no," he said. "Anyway, I've got to get back to my dorm. It's cold as fuck out here."

Theo said nothing as Draco walked past him, heading up the stairs. The tension was so thick that Draco could hardly breathe. And the moment he passed him, even though there were multiple inches between them, it felt like they had brushed against one another.

"Remember what I said before?" Theo said, inciting Draco to stop without turning to face him. "In Hogsmeade?"

"We've been to Hogsmeade loads of times," Draco said, his head rolling to look back at him. "Which words in particular?"

"It was the last time we went," he replied. "I told you witches—"

"Deserved nice things, yeah." Draco waved his hand. "What about it?"

Theo had turned to face him now. "It doesn't always have to be about gifts. Sometimes, the things they need aren't solid. Sometimes, they need a friend."

"Okay?" Draco said slowly. "And we're both friends with her."

"If that means her friends need to discuss her well-being, then that's what it means." Theo turned to face his back.

"There's nothing to discuss." Draco faced him, too, looking down his nose at him.

"Just like there was nothing to discuss this Summer when we were all on trial?"

Draco cursed under his breath. "I told you I didn't have the energy to write to you—"

"And what about your mother? We never discussed that, either—I had to find out from The Prophet."

Draco felt his heart exploding in his chest, the simultaneous reminder of his mother's demise and anger over Theo obviously challenging him overwhelming him.

Theo was trying to manipulate him into telling him what had happened with Hermione.

Without a word, Draco turned and headed back into the castle. From behind him came Theo's voice calling after him.

"She needs someone who will be the person to do anything, say anything, or be anything to make her happy. Don't act like you can be that wizard when you can't even take care of yourself."

Draco stopped, his fists clenching at his sides. He whirled around, his face contorted with rage. He moved back towards Theo, who's eyes widened. The shorter wizard staggered backward in fear.

"Don't act like you know anything about her," Draco snarled, leering down at Theo with all the vehemence he could muster. "What do the two of you do together? Study? Are you the one she comes to at night when she can't sleep? Are you the one who knows what it's like to watch her break into pieces? No. You don't know what it's like to be the only person that can keep her together when she's falling apart. I don't need to take care of myself—I need to take care of her."

Too much.

He'd said too much.

There were gears turning in Theo's eyes as he searched his, trying to make sense of what Draco had just said. Gears that showed Draco he'd said way more than he'd meant to or should have.

"Just—stay the fuck out of our relationship, Theo," Draco spat, walking backwards while glaring at him. He pointed at him. "And stay the fuck away from Granger."

Theo's expression was unreadable as Draco held his gaze, then turned and stormed around the corner leading back to the Head dorms. It felt like they'd just played a game of Quidditch.

Draco couldn't tell who won.


In spite of the argument with Theo, Draco felt strong enough to return to the common room.

He and Hermione weren't in a relationship, but there was something deep stretching like a void between them. Something that he knew there was no possible way that Theo could traverse. Theo could theorize all he wanted.

Hermione would never belong to him.

As he neared the portrait, he found himself looking into the wizened eyes of Dumbledore. He seemed to be only a bit interested in the book painted into his hands, and was watching Draco over the top of his glasses. He wore much the same gentle, imploring look he'd given Draco on his final night atop the Astronomy Tower.

He could almost hear his voice.

"I shall make it easy for you."

Draco looked away from the portrait, rubbing his fingers along his jawline. When he looked back at the portrait again, Dumbledore was still watching him.

"Years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices. Please let me help you."

Draco knew the real reason why he'd failed to save all those people—why he'd let his mother die—and he wasn't going to make the same mistakes again. Instead of fear, he would steep himself in anger and determination, and he would use it to save her. He would fix everything. Like sunlight on the snow, he would melt her down so her flowers could show through and bloom again.

He would make her better.

Draco set his jaw.

"Apricus," he said.

Dumbledore smiled. The portrait swung open. Draco stepped into the darkness.

The Christmas lights were on, the little floating decorations that Hermione had set up weeks ago zipping about in response to him entering the common room. It was quiet—quieter even than it had been outside—but warm. The fireplace had sprung to life at some point, giving off the crackling heat he needed to get the feeling back into his fingers.

Hermione sat on the edge of the couch, chewing her thumbnail, and staring into the flames. At the sound of the portrait clicking against the outside wall, her head whipped around. Their eyes met.

She leapt to her feet.

Draco's gaze swept her form. She was wearing one of his dark jumpers with the hood up, and it dwarfed her small frame. Her legs were clad in pyjama trousers and her feet were ensconced in socks. Her hair hung in limp curls, damp from a shower.

"You left your door open," she said, her voice cracking on a whisper. "I was overwhelmed. I just . . ."

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and cocked his head to the side, waiting.

She lowered her gaze, wringing her hands in front of her.

"I wanted to be close to you."

Draco's heart fluttered and he coughed, gazing to the left, at the tree. It was ringed in lights, but still held no decorations.

How could she say things like that and still want to reverse the bond?

"Why don't you get your little—whatevers." He gestured to the tree with a lazy hand. "We're gonna get this shite done and talk."

"You mean . . ." Her face brightened a bit, though not as much as it had in their shared dreams. "Decorate the—"

"Yeah. Hurry up, before I change my mind."

Hermione blinked and then went back to her room. She emerged from within it with her wand. When she returned to the living room, she stood near the fireplace and conjured up a box just like the one in their dream. Draco stood on the other side of it, watching as she knelt down and pulled open the flaps. Inside were plenty of ornaments for them to decorate with. With another wave of her wand, she set a charm that would make the ornaments float into the air one after the other so they wouldn't have to keep crouching.

"Are you sure you don't want to charm them all onto the tree?" she asked, sounding cautious. She wouldn't make eye contact with him.

"Yeah," he said, plucking an ornament out of the air and hanging it onto the tree. "You said it was something you used to do with your family, and I said we would do it in real life, too."

She nodded, but to Draco, it looked like she was trying to hide her smile.

They decorated for a while. Draco remained silent, sifting through his mind for the right direction to take the conversation. The fact remained that they needed to discuss what he'd walked in on, but they had all night. There really was no reason for them to jump right in—they could ease into it.

Besides, they had something else serious to talk about.

"So," he said, clearing his throat, "about last night . . . We should figure out what it meant."

"Like . . . For us?"

Draco shot her a look, perturbed. This was the second time she'd said something that alluded to a connection between them. A connection that didn't seem to take into account a dissolution of the star bond.

But she wasn't wrong.

"The fact that you—that you feel things when you're in my dreams, and that I feel things when I'm in yours is something we should discuss," he said, focusing on the tree. "Especially given that I never was able to connect with you in any sort of way before this month."

"What do you think it meant?" She looked up at him. "In regards to the bond, I mean."

"I think . . ." He tipped his head back. It took all of his energy to keep his mind from going back to what they'd done in the dream. "I think the bond is getting stronger, somehow. In some way. I think it's definitely within the realm of possibility to say that we're both at the third level."

"The Consummation."

Their fingers brushed in midair as they reached for the same ornament floating above the box. Their gazes locked, and in the golden glow of the firelight, she looked nothing like the pitiful girl he'd seen on the floor in front of the loo.

He wished she could see how beautiful she was.

"Yeah," he said, letting her have the ornament so he could grab another one. "That means if we're gonna try to figure out how to dissolve the bond, then we need to be careful."

"How careful?"

Something shifted in his stomach, twisting to an unbearable coil. He gazed at her sidelong as he wrapped the wire of an ornament around part of a branch so it wouldn't fall off.

"Careful," he said. "No more getting carried away in dreams—we don't know if what happens inside of them carries over when it comes to the bond."

She rose on tip-toe again, and the hood fell back, exposing her drying curls. "But doesn't it feel . . . Overwhelming for you?"

"For me?" He shrugged. "I mean, what do you mean? Are you saying it feels overwhelming for you?"

"I'm saying we should try to figure out what could cause our levels to be different. If you're feeling what I'm feeling, then we're both on the same level. If you're not—if you're in actuality on the second—then that means somehow I've surpassed you."

Draco frowned. "Well . . . What are the levels based on?"

"The star bond book that I ordered says it's based on feelings—emotions." They looked at one another, and he could see trepidation shining in her eyes. "The person who feels the strongest gets intertwined faster."

And it made sense that Draco would have taken years to get to the third level. He'd thought he hated her. He'd had a strange crush on her that ever since that night in Hogsmeade—when she'd cried in front of him and Theo—had turned to fancy. He'd thought he hated her, and now he didn't.

But that meant that Hermione had developed feelings for him. Fast.

"Well, I guess that solves that," he said, trying to be as clinical as possible. "I felt something for you first, which is why I had the dreams for so long. It grew slowly, and then I moved from the first to the second level. You had your Awakening at some point this year, and then slipped into the Draw quicker than I did for whatever reason—"

"Because I didn't hate you like you hated me."

He looked at her. ". . . You didn't?"

"I've never hated you." She hung an ornament. "I felt sad for you, but I never hated you. I didn't fancy you until this year."

Ah, that was unfamiliar. Pity. Not many people had showed that to him in his eighteen years of being alive.

Wait.

She fancies me?

"I think," she went on while studying a glittering red orb in her hand, "that means that if you hadn't felt like you hated me for so long, then perhaps you would have slipped into the second or third level way before now. From what I'm gleaning, it seems like the lack of being on the same page could have posed a problem for matches back when the wizarding world was using star bonds to align marriages. The feelings have to be there, or the bond won't work properly. Imagine if we hadn't ever interacted—we would have been connected forever, always felt incomplete, and one day died at the same time without ever knowing why."

"Romantic," he said in a sarcasm-heavy voice.

She let out a laugh and hung the ornament on the tree. "I suppose."

He couldn't believe they were talking about having feelings for one another while decorating a Christmas tree as though they were discussing an essay for Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Judging by what she was saying, they only had two choices: stay together and consummate the bond, or figure out how to reverse it.

Draco opened his mouth to respond, but she was already talking, hanging ornaments on the tree again.

"So," she said, raising up to hang more ornaments near the top, "we shouldn't beat around the bush. I'm sorry that you saw what you saw. I wasn't thinking clearly and I forgot to lock the door."

Draco stared at her.

Was she really going to act like he'd simply walked in on her using the loo?

"Why?" he said, voice flat.

"Why, what?"

"Why do you do that to yourself?" He ran his fingers through his messy hair. "Why do you make yourself sick?"

"It's not about why," she said.

"What do you mean, it's not about why?" he asked, frowning again. "Of course it's about why. I just asked you why you do it."

"And I can't answer you," she said. "It's too hard to explain."

"Why is it hard to explain? You don't just eat your food and throw it up for no reason." Draco could feel his anger flaring to life again. "Is it about the way you look, because you look—"

"Stop," she said, giving him a bit of a wild-eyed look. "Don't talk about my body. I don't like that."

"Okay," he said, dragging the word out. "Then what's the problem?"

"I can't just tell you what the problem is!" she cried, spinning to face him in a fan of long curls. She didn't look angry—just irritated. "When I say it's not that simple, I mean it's not that simple. It's not about the way I look—it's about changing it because I can."

He searched her eyes, his gaze bouncing back and forth. "Losing weight?"

"It's just a method. A—A result. Something I can manage. A symptom."

"All right."

"Think of my mindset like a virus," she said with a sigh, turning to hang some smaller ornaments on the tree. "Like a common virus with symptoms, and the symptoms are what present on the outside. You can't physically see the actual virus. The problem is that I don't know who I am and I never have, and the stress I'm constantly under just—piles up and becomes too—" She gestured to her chest. "Too much. And then I have to get rid of it so that more can pile up. Otherwise I feel like I'm going to explode. I just don't like feeling full."

"And that translates to food?" Draco scratched the back of his head.

"Yes," she said, sounding exasperated. "Can you put the star on the tree?"

"Yeah." He plucked it out of the air and set it on top of the tree with ease. "And that translates to food how?"

"I don't know how. It's just a feeling I have." She began to pace. "I never really got the chance to figure out who I wanted to be, and I was already wrapped up in the war. I mean, I never even figured out what I wanted to do for a career—I didn't think about anything. I was just so focused on the world around me that I didn't—it's stupid."

Draco didn't think it was, but she seemed frazzled. He put his hands on his hips, looking at the tree without really seeing it.

"But how do you go from feeling stressed out to suddenly making yourself sick? We all feel stressed out ninety percent of the time this year, but we don't all do that," he said. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Because my first time wasn't this year, Draco!" she said, throwing one hand up. "The—"

"Don't . . . Yell at me," he said in a soft, dangerous tone, holding her gaze. She had no idea how angry he was, and how hard he was working to hold it at bay. "Just talk to me."

"Fine. Sorry." She scowled and he saw her pulling the sleeves of his jumper down over the ends of her hands. "The first time I threw up was in Fifth Year. It was on accident—I was really worried about how we were going to balance exams with the DA. It was Christmas, and I—I dunno—I just kept eating. I ate until it hurt, and it made me nauseous. I ended up getting sick in the loo and my parents laughed because they knew I was eating way too much. But I had this weirdly . . . Empty feeling afterward. And my head felt fuzzy."

Draco watched as she stopped pacing and faced the fireplace.

"It was the first time I didn't feel worried about anything. Harry, the Dark Lord, the DA . . . Even exams. I hadn't been able to relax all holiday. My mother was irritated with me because I kept messing up the sugar cookies. I couldn't—couldn't seem to get the cutters to work properly. But after I got rid of it, it was easier to focus and I was able to help her finish." She stared at the flames, her voice growing wistful. "I never forgot that feeling. In Sixth Year, we ate dinner late because of the funeral. You wouldn't remember—you weren't there."

He felt an arrows guilt lance through his heart, but he remained silent.

She looked over her shoulder and up at him. "I was just so sad and scared and anxious about the fact that Harry was so lost in his head. I knew—I just knew he wasn't going to come back. I knew everything was going to change. I didn't want it to change. And I made myself sick after dinner that night so I could feel empty for j-just—" Her voice broke and she hugged herself. "I just wanted it all to go away for a bit, just like at Christmas."

"Did you keep doing it after that?" he asked, thinking of the many years his mother had engaged in the same behaviors.

"Sometimes. When we were traveling during Seventh Year, I didn't really do it until Ron left. I—"

"He left?"

"Yes," she said in a bitter tone. "It's not important, but yes. He left and then came back. We took him back."

Something in her voice told Draco her words went deeper than they implied.

"But while he was gone, I would sometimes make myself sick after dinner if I felt like I couldn't focus on what we were working on. It felt like I didn't have room for all three—the Horcruxes, Ron, and the food. One had to go."

Draco sighed. He didn't need to ask her why she was so sick this year—he knew now very well what the catalyst for that was. Things were making a bit more sense, but they seemed so convoluted.

How was he supposed to help her when he had no idea how to detangle the threads she was weaving?

"You talk about it like you understand it," he said.

"I do understand it."

"Then why are you still sick?"

Her head pulled back on her shoulders. "That's not—I don't—Draco, I can't even explain to you how triggering that is."

"What is 'triggering'?" He crossed his arms. "What does 'triggering' mean?"

She turned to face him, her back to the fire. "It means it's upsetting to me."

"Upsetting how?"

"It means it makes me want to throw up, okay?" The annoyance was written on her face like a manifesto. "It's like you're saying it's my fault I'm like this, when I feel so out of control all the time. Believe me, if other methods of stress management worked, I'd be doing those. Just because I understand what's wrong with me, doesn't mean I should automatically be cured."

"That doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't have to make sense!" she snapped. "And frankly, I don't care if you understand it, or not! The point of this conversation wasn't to cure me of anything. I was simply apologizing for you seeing it. I'll make sure to lock the door next time, even when I think you're sleeping."

Draco could feel red tinging the corners of his vision. Did she think he was daft?

"You actually think I'm just going to let you go back to doing it?" he said, glaring down at her. "Have you gone fucking mental?!"

"You're not gonna let me do anything, Draco!" she shouted, and he actually took a step back. "It's not up to you what I do with my body. And if it's a matter of me doing it in the loo, then I'll do it elsewhere. Don't start thinking you get to tell me what to do."

Draco steepled his fingers in front of him. "It's not that I'm trying to tell you what to do. I'm trying to help you."

"You can't help me!" she cried. "I don't want your bloody help!"

Draco saw red.

"Don't fucking yell at me!" he roared, causing her to shrink back, closer to the fire. "I don't care if you want my help—I'm not just going to turn a blind eye while you waste away to nothing, you infuriating little—" He gritted his teeth. "Witch. I'm trying to help you because I understand."

"You couldn't possibly—"

"I understand more than anyone else," he spat, cutting her off. He turned away, towards the tree as the grief started to turn rancid in his stomach again. "So just believe me when I say I only want to help you."

"How could you possibly understand?!" She moved into his peripheral vision, her arms crossed. "How?"

He opened his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue.

He'd never talked about his mother aloud. He'd never cried in front of anyone about it. He'd attended the funeral for her with dry eyes and a somber disposition. He'd given her obituary to the Prophet without so much as a frown.

But he'd never told anyone her secret.

It felt like a betrayal.

"I just do, all right?" he said, looking down into her eyes and willing her to believe him. "I want to help you, and I'm not trying to control you. I realize that I can't stop you from doing it—but if you're gonna do it, I'd rather you do it where you're safe."

Surprise registered in her eyes as he walked past her, heading for his room.

"That's it? You don't—"

"Just sit down," he said, feeling exhausted. "Sit on the couch."

He heard the cushions shift as she did. "But where are you going?"

"If we're gonna talk about this," he muttered, "then I'm getting fucking blazed."