Apricity – Chapter Thirty

Draco had never been this angry for this long in his entire life.

He wanted to murder the Weaselbee. Legitimately. And he had for a long, long time. Every time he thought about how horrifically his uncaring selfishness had gotten Hermione hurt or affected her poorly, the flames rose higher in his chest.

The clock had run out.

He spent the rest of the night after his conversation with Hermione—as well as the following morning thinking of all the different ways he could eviscerate the oaf without even killing him yet so he could cause him as much pain as possible.

Everything he'd done to Hermione was unforgivable, and Draco didn't care what she said. Verbally, mentally, and emotionally abusing her. Leaving her without a wand in an unfamiliar city. Demanding he give her body to him, and then claiming she had a "shite personality" when she didn't. Cornering her in their common room and forcing his disgusting lips upon her.

Absolutely fucking not.

On Wednesday, Draco and Hermione had both gotten pulled aside by Professor Flitwick. Apparently, he'd noticed that they'd skived off and the other professors were worried since holiday had only just ended. None of these professors had decided to go to McGonagall yet, but the warning was clear in Flitwick's tone. Draco saw the wizard's eyes sweeping the length of Hermione's body with worry and concern.

This had distressed her.

When they'd gotten to the Great Hall, she'd wordlessly walked to the Gryffindor table without so much as a second glance. Draco had felt dismayed, having wanted to see if she was finally amenable to sitting together at one of their House's tables. Begrudgingly, he'd gone to sit with Blaise, Pansy, and Theo.

Theo didn't speak to him, but he chatted in a guarded manner with Blaise and Pansy—as though Draco's presence made him uncomfortable. Blaise picked up on it but said nothing. Pansy was as chipper and oblivious as ever. Draco snuck glances across the Great Hall.

Hermione was eating.

He fought the full-body sigh he wanted to let out. It was Flitwick's warning. It had to be. Circe, the girl had a threshold for stress that was too low to function. And he couldn't even do anything about it. He felt so helpless.

She left the moment her plate was empty.

"We're already going to London again soon," Pansy said, nudging Draco's side and drawing his attention away.

"Oh, yeah?" he said, taking a bite of his sandwich. "When?"

"Not this weekend, but the next," Blaise said. "Pansy wants another tattoo."

"And I never got to go dancing," she said with a pout.

"Ah," Draco answered. He couldn't tear his eyes off of the doors Hermione had exited through. Right now, as he sat there, she was probably purging. It made him so fucking sad that his chest hurt.

"Why don't you ask Hermione if she wants to come, too?" Pansy asked, sounding excited. "We had so much fun last time, and—"

"Last time?" Theo set his fork down, his gaze sliding back and forth between Pansy and Draco. "What do you—wait—what do you mean last time?"

Draco kept his facial expression blank. "We went to London together on Christmas Eve, remember?"

"Oh, that's right." Theo's gaze hardened. "Well, if it's just for a tattoo and dancing this time, we should all go."

Draco's stomach clenched with his desire to say no, but he knew there was no reason for it. Whether he and Theo were getting along or not, they had been friends for years. That, and Blaise and Pansy were neutral parties.

"Yeah!" Pansy cried, clapping her hands. "Oh, that sounds like so much fun. What if we all got matching tattoos? Something to remember our Eighth Year by. Something to show we survived."

"I dunno if Hermione would wanna do that," Draco said. "I would, though."

"She might," Theo said. "I mean, you don't know what she's thinking. Maybe she'd like the idea."

Did he have to contradict everything Draco said?

Draco sighed and looked up. Theo was getting up to leave and now he had a direct view of the Weaselbee. The redheaded oaf was scarfing his food down, talking and laughing with his friends as though he hadn't just destroyed Hermione's progress on Monday.

Perhaps Azkaban wasn't that bad.


Draco had no idea where to put the emotions.

When he was younger, he would have sniveled to his mother. He couldn't do that anymore. He also would have ranted to his father. He couldn't do that anymore, either.

Except that he could.

He knew that he could. All he had to do was write to him.

But how could he write to him when there was a wooden chest full of unopened letters from Lucius sitting on his dresser? His father had always been the bitter type. What would he think if Draco's first response to him in months was to whinge about how poorly a Weasley was treating his witch? His witch, who just so happened to not only be Hermione Granger, but a Muggle-born?

Draco was a changed man but he predicted that his father was not.

And yet . . .

There was a reason why Draco had always threatened to tell his father about everything. Lucius would know exactly what to do. Lucius would know exactly the right steps to take to end the Weaselbee without anyone finding out it was him. He would know how Draco could cover his tracks and—

Okay, maybe that was overzealous.

He wanted the Weaselbee dead; he didn't want to kill him. He wanted to see the life leave his eyes at his hands, but he didn't want to be the one who got in trouble for it. If he and Hermione were about to start a life together, whatever that looked like, he didn't want to start it with a sentence in Azkaban.

His father would know how to do that.

Draco wrote and rewrote the letter before leaving for breakfast Thursday morning, finding that it was best to err on the side of vague.

Father,

I find myself in a predicament of the romantic sort.

There is a wizard who has crossed every line in the sand, and he continues to try and cross the ones I draw. I made my presence known to him, and he obliterated that line on his way across it—again. I fear his House ensures he's not afraid of anything.

So, you're hearing about this.

Your son—

He crossed that one out.

Best,

Draco.

His hands shook as he sealed the letter. Because if he sent this letter, that meant that no matter what response his father sent, he was going to have to open it. Disregarding all the other letters in the wooden chest, the next letter would end their one-sided armistice.

But for Hermione, he'd do anything.

Draco headed to the owlery, his heart as heavy as his steps. This was terrifying—more terrifying than anything he'd done since the war ended. Almost as terrifying as losing Hermione, but more terrifying than the possibility of failure in his Sixth Year. He couldn't imagine what his father was going to think when he saw that he'd finally gotten a letter from his son. Couldn't imagine what he'd feel when he read it.

Would he even respond?

In the owlery, it was colder than he'd expected. The snow capped the hills in the distance and rolled down across the land, it having snowed quite an immense amount overnight. Draco called for his owl, Eomer. When the letter was tied to his ankle, he sent him off and watched him wing away, into the distance.

No matter what he felt, he knew this wasn't a mistake. It would never be a mistake when it came to helping her.

The stairwell was cold and dimly lit from the windows high above. Draco's brow was furrowed, deep in thought as he made his way down and around the first bend. Then, he stopped.

Weasley.

"Oh," the Weaselbee sneered. "It's you."

"It's me." Draco's countenance darkened. "Come to send a love letter your mum?"

The Weaselbee blanched but made no movements. "As if it's any business of yours. Given you're likely here to send a letter to the one remaining member of that rubbish heap you call a family."

Draco's fury swelled and swelled. He took a step down, bringing him closer to who had now become his mortal enemy. He narrowed his eyes.

"Say one more bloody thing about my family," he hissed, "and I'll have no issues joining my rubbish heap in Azkaban."

One corner of the Weaselbee's mouth drifted upward into a lazy half-smile. He had an envelope in his hand but he crossed his arms over his chest. "You could join him, or you could join your mother in Hell. Doesn't matter which way you go—as long as you leave."

Draco had been wrong.

This was the angriest he'd ever been.

"You're fucking lucky, you know that?" he snarled. "You're fucking lucky that the only reason I haven't drained every drop of blood from your body is because of Hermione. If it weren't for her protecting your sorry arse, you'd already be dead."

The Weaselbee merely smirked. "Ooh, threatening words coming from a failed Death Eater-in-training. What, you scared of what a girl will do to you if you brass her off? Last time I checked, she wasn't your girlfriend."

"Last time I checked, she wasn't your girlfriend, either." He descended another step, a cruel smirk twisting his face. "Though that didn't seem to stop you from sexually assaulting her in our common room. Or did you forget that I'm the one she's snogging now?"

The matching smirk on the Weaselbee's face faded. Draco continued, driving the knife in deeper.

"That's right. We're snogging. I know what her cunt tastes like, too. You might know a little bit about that. Er—wait. Last I fucking checked, she didn't want you to even touch her, let alone fuck her. She may not be my girlfriend." Draco stopped one step above him, their chests almost touching from how close he was. "But she is mine."

Draco was being disrespectful to her. He knew he was being disrespectful. But he couldn't stop the old version of himself—the version that everyone called Malfoy—from jumping out to tear at the Weaselbee's insecurities. He wanted to bully him. He wanted to watch the light of strength leave his eyes so he could make him feel as small as his actions had made Hermione feel.

He wanted to hurt him.

"How could she possibly want someone as reprehensible and disgusting as you?" the Weasel growled, and he used his forefingers to shove against Draco's shoulders. He stumbled back up a step. "You watched your own aunt torture her on the floor of your home. You probably laughed because everything you are is devoid of worth. You're just temporary, Malfoy. You're nothing."

Draco tried to stop himself. He really did.

Or maybe he didn't try hard enough at all.

"And your selfishness in Paris caused her to get raped in an alleyway outside of your hotel while her wand was right inside the fucking room. So, maybe we're not so different after all," he hissed through clenched teeth. "The only difference there is between the two of us is that I'm going to spend the rest of my life making amends with her hand in mine. But you? You'll die knowing you're the reason she fell apart. You'll die knowing you fucked up."

No. No, I shouldn't have said that. That wasn't my secret to tell.

It was hers.

And then, before he could rein in his rage, Draco used the fingers of one hand to shove the Weaselbee's left shoulder. Hard. Harder than he meant to.

Hard enough to make him fall.

The Weaselbee tumbled head over heels down the stairs, grunting and screaming all the way down to the bottom. He hit the walls as he went. It looked as painful as Draco hoped it was. He hoped it hurt as badly as Hermione's heart did.

Ron deserved this.

Draco pushed up the sleeves of his black jumper as he followed the Weasel down, his rage burning so bright and so vehement that he wasn't sure if he was going to let the oaf come out of this one alive. He reached the landing the moment the Weaselbee landed on his back, and then he leaned down to grab the front of his shirt. When he hauled him up, the Weasel's wand slipped out of his sleeve and clattered to the floor, where Draco merely stepped on it so it couldn't be summoned.

He slammed his fist into the center of the Weaselbee's face, just as he'd been dreaming of doing for weeks. And it felt good. It felt phenomenal. His skin giving way beneath his knuckles. The crunch of bone against cartilage. The spurt of blood from his nostrils.

A wand and a spell would never have filled him with the same satisfaction.

"I should kill you!" he roared as he beat Weasley's face again and again and again. "Everything you do—everything you've done to her—I should fucking kill you for it!"

The Weaselbee's hands rose, trying to shield himself, but he was too weak. Something was wrong with one of his legs.

"I'm—" He coughed and spluttered as blood ran into his mouth and seeped between his teeth. "I'm sorry! I didn't know!"

"And you'll never fucking know what pain she went through!" Draco wrapped his hand around his throat and pushed his face close to his so he could see how much hatred burned in his eyes. "You'll never know what it's like to watch her try to be strong when she's so fucking scared she can hardly breathe. You'll never know how hard it is to tell her no when she wants you to wash her six fucking times because she still feels so unclean with five. So fuck you, Weasley. Fuck you."

His fist reared back and then—crack—one final blow to the Weaselbee's nose, and it was completely broken. Mangled. He let out a rattling breath, his eyes unfocused.

"Now, you know."

The Weasel groaned when Draco threw him down again and collapsed in a heap. Tears leaked down his swelling, reddened face. He didn't seem able to move.

"I'm sorry," came the Weaselbee's weak, broken voice. "I never thought—I never imagined—I didn't mean for it to happen that way."

"And I didn't mean to make the mistakes I did," Draco spat. "But your intentions when you left her there were to scare her. To make her feel weak and powerless. To punish her for making you feel like less of a man. And your intentions caused her to get hurt. I may be nothing, but I'm something to her. But you? You'll never be anything more than a reminder."

The Weaselbee's eyes widened. The words had struck home.

"And if you tell anyone I did this to you," Draco hissed, "I'll tell everyone what you did to Hermione in the common room. All it will take is a Pensieve to see the truth."

Draco shook his hand out, ignoring the sting of his split knuckles. It was worth it. For her, it would always be worth it. Every last move. Every last word.

But he was fucked.


Draco was a man.

He knew that he'd fucked up. He'd fucked up badly. Not because of what he'd done to the Weaselbee—no, he didn't regret that and he was confident that the Weaselbee had learned his lesson.

Because of the fact that he'd betrayed Hermione's secret.

He felt horrible. Sick to his stomach. Like every part of himself lacked value. This was exactly why he couldn't tell Hermione about his mother. Because it was a betrayal to her memory. Hermione was alive, and he'd just betrayed her.

And she didn't even know yet.

At the end of his last class, he snuck out to Professor Sprout's garden, right outside the greenhouse. After a quick Disillusionment spell to keep any rare prying eyes away, he picked a bouquet of flowers for her. They were all colors—red, yellow, white, blue, and purple—and he tied them off with a conjured ribbon. When he was able to access his father's accounts, he knew he'd be able to get her roses, but for now, this would have to do.

Draco was a man and he knew well enough to know that flowers were the first step to an apology.

He entered the common room right as Hermione was exiting the kitchenette. She still wore her uniform, but her robes were tossed haphazardly over the back of the couch. Aside from that and the half-empty lit Christmas tree, the common room was clean.

"You cleaned," he said, his eyebrows rising.

"You brought flowers," she shot back, also looking surprised.

They walked toward one another, and he held the bouquet out to her. She smiled and closed her eyes as she inhaled the scent. When she pulled back, his gaze couldn't help but fall to where he could clearly see the diamond star around her neck.

"They smell lovely," she said. "Thank you, Draco. But what are they for?"

"Because I fancy you."

She stared up at him, looking startled. He supposed he felt startled, too. They'd done all manner of things, from holding hands to falling asleep together to what had happened on the couch on Monday, but they'd never explicitly stated if they had any feelings. Draco felt his cheeks warming, but he did his best to ignore it. He pushed his hand through his messy hair.

"You—" She cut herself off to gasp. "What happened to your hand?"

"Oh, this?" Draco swallowed, waving his still-aching hand dismissively and dropping it to his side. "It was nothing. I was rounding a corner and someone called my name. When I turned, my hand flew out and I slammed it into the corner of the wall."

"Hm. Well, you should put some Dittany on it."

"Not all of us carry Dittany around in our bags, witch," he said, rolling his eyes. "Now, why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just that . . ." Her smile turned wistful. "No one's ever gotten me flowers before."

At that, he fought the urge to scoff.

"Well, get used to it. A wizard doesn't need a reason to bring flowers to his witch." He leaned down to press a soft kiss to her cheek. "You promised me dinner this morning. Go put those in water and then we can go."

"Okay," she said, her tone bright and merry. "I want to stop by the Great Hall, though. Parvati told me she needed help with a study guide, and I told her I'd look it over really quick."

"All right," he said with reluctance. He wanted a chance to distract her before she inevitably found out about the Weaselbee.

Hermione went to the kitchen, where he heard the water running and a spell for conjuring being uttered. Then, she disappeared into her dorm room, closing the door behind her. A few minutes later, she emerged wearing a dress that wasn't much different from the one she'd worn in November on her failure of a date with the Weaselbee. Her curls were loose, as they always were.

"How do I look?" she asked, twirling for him in the dining area and holding her arms out in a dainty manner. "Is it too dressy for the Three Broomsticks?"

"You look beautiful, Hermione," he murmured, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. "Maybe we should stay here."

She flushed and fixed him with a stern look. "Do you want me to eat, or not?"

His smile faltered at that.

She walked past him to the coat rack, where she pulled her coat on, and then grabbed his to hand it to him.

"You know everyone's going to see us walk in together, wearing our coats," she said. "They're going to suspect we're going on a date."

"Does that bother you?" he asked as he pulled his peacoat on.

"I—Well . . ." She looked thoughtful for a moment and then placed her hand on his chest. "No. It doesn't."

Draco's heart skipped a beat. "Then let them think whatever they'd like."

"Did you know Ron got hurt today?" she said suddenly, giving him a concerned look.

Er—uh-oh.

"No," he lied. "What happened?"

"He slipped on the stairs in the owlery and fell down to the bottom. Smashed his face on the stone and broke his nose. I found out from Pansy in Charms today, and she found out from Dean. I guess Dean was in the Infirmary this morning for something. He's all right now—I saw him in class after lunch. Madam Pomfret knows what she's doing."

"Well, good," Draco said, because he was still himself. He cupped Hermione's face and leaned down to kiss her. Pulling back, he smirked at her. "I'd be lying if I didn't think he deserved it."

"I just feel poorly," she said, still frowning.

"Why? Because he got hurt?"

"No. Because I feel like he deserved it, too."

Draco kissed her again, just to keep himself from telling her the truth.

When they got to the Great Hall, Draco made a last-minute decision and reached for her hand. He twined his fingers with hers, relishing in the cheerful smile she sent up to him. The mutual agreement that they were ready for this part filled him with joy edged with guilt.

This wouldn't last.

Hermione pulled him towards the Gryffindor table, to where Parvati sat flanked by all the people who hated him most—including the Gryffindors who had been present at the Battle of Hogwarts and seen his family's spiral downward.

And the Weaselbee.

He looked fine. His nose was intact. He wasn't limping. He had not a single bruise on his body. But the look in his eyes and the wounds Draco had accidentally left on his own knuckles was all Draco needed to remember that he'd beaten the fuck out him that morning.

Draco's palm felt like it was going to sweat, but Hermione only tightened her hold.

"Hi, Hermione," Parvati said slowly, her suspicious glance rendering Draco awkward and speechless. "And Malfoy."

"Don't mind him," Hermione said in a chipper tone. "We're off on a date tonight. Do you have your study guide?"

Okay. Wow.

"Yeah," Parvati said. "I have it."

"Great! Can I see it?"

Parvati cast Draco one more wary glance before she reached into her bag and withdrew her parchment. Hermione took it, all without ever letting go of his hand. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he'd say she was trembling.

Was she nervous to be in front of the Weaselbee?

That thought sent a fresh wave of determination through him. He didn't care how anxious he was—Hermione came first. If she was scared or nervous to be in front of Weasley, then he was going to make sure she had something to hide behind. Something to use as armor.

Draco held the Weaselbee's gaze as his fingers slipped the curls on one side of Hermione's head over her shoulder, arranging them neatly on her back so she could see without them getting in the way.

Instead of a glare, the oaf paled and looked down at his food.

The other Eighth Years continued to glower and stare him down, but he didn't care. He wasn't afraid of any of them.

He feared only one thing.

"Okay, it looks good," Hermione said, handing the parchment back to Parvati. "I'd just change the wording on this question to be affirmative instead. Because if the exam isn't looking for an opinion tomorrow, you might accidentally give one and get marked down."

"Thank you," Parvati said. Then, after a second, she blurted out, "Are you two going together?"

Draco and Hermione exchanged glances, and he raised one eyebrow. They were right in front of her friends. The entire Gryffindor table. The Weaselbee.

"Yes," she said, squeezing his hand again. "And as I said before, we've got a date. So, we'll see you—Oh, the mail's here."

Everyone glanced up. The owls were swooping in, dropping parcels and envelopes. He barely managed to let go of Hermione so he could catch both hers and his mail in midair before they fluttered to the ground. But it didn't matter.

She got two more envelopes from two separate owls.

As everyone began tearing into their parcels, he handed Hermione the letter of hers he'd caught. He stared at the one that was for him. It clearly had his name written on the front, but the handwriting was horrific. Wrinkled and wrong, like the person writing it was in the midst of forgetting how to write.

Familiar in the way it ached.

This was it. A response from his father that technically, he could ignore. But at the same time, he couldn't. Something inside of him told him it was time. Maybe not for the other letters—but he could manage this one. He had to.

Feeling several pairs of eyes on him, he schooled his facial expression into an impassive one and broke the silver wax seal.

Gods. The handwriting. The stopped and started sentences. Like it was so hard for him to use a quill—like he was losing his ability to write, or like it was too cold. But he'd still tried.

For his son.

Draco,

You must put your witch in front of all things, like I failed to do with your mother. You must stop drawing lines in the sand and start defending the ones you have already drawn. If he fears nothing, then no punishment is too severe where your witch is concerned.

You are a Slytherin and a Malfoy. That means you are a dragon.

Be careful and guard your treasure.

Love,

Your Father

It felt like a punch to his gut.

All of the responses Draco had ignored—the months he'd let his father rot in that cell—and his father had dropped any bitterness he might feel just to help him. His son. His son, who'd crossed that out just to write "Best" beside it, right where he could see.

Suddenly, Hermione turned to face him.

"How could you?"

His heart sank into the pits of Hell. He dragged his gaze from his father's poor handwriting—handwriting that had once been elegant—and looked down into the eyes of his witch. He almost took a step back.

They were on fire.

He didn't say anything. He knew what was happening. What he'd done. The way she glared at the Weaselbee and then up at Draco again—he knew his mistake had been discovered. Sorrow opened him up inside and ripped him into pieces.

"How could you do this to me, Draco? How could you—You were the only one who—You know what. No. I never should have trusted you. I never should have . . ." She shook her head, clearly on the verge of angry tears, and she smacked the letters she'd received against his chest.

The silence of the surrounding students humiliated Draco.

"Don't follow me," she hissed, "or it'll be the fifth time I slap you."

Her curls bounced against her back as she stormed out of the Great Hall. Draco didn't even have the energy to feel irritated asTheo dashed off after her as though he'd been waiting for the chance to.

If she found solace in food or in Theo, it was what Draco deserved.

He stood there in the tense, charged silence, on display like a hideous sculpture, and read the letters.

Hermione,

We need to talk. I don't know why you didn't tell me what happened in Paris, but at the very least—you could have told me and we could have gone to the Ministry. I'm a Junior Auror. We have ways of finding Muggles who deserve to be found.

I don't want to discuss this over a letter, though. I'm taking leave from work and coming tomorrow.

I won't tell McGonagall. Yet.

Love always,

Harry

Hands trembling, he moved on to the next one.

I'm writing this really fast because Harry's really, really mad right now. He wants us to come there tomorrow. I just wanted to tell you that I love you. You're my best friend, even if I'm not yours. Whoever hurt you won't get away with it.

Harry's gonna make sure of it.

Love,

Ginny

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

The third and last letter.

Hermione,

This letter is from Molly and I both, but she was too upset to write and I didn't want her to send a Howler just to distress you with her weeping. We need to focus on you right now.

Ron wrote to us and told us what happened in Paris. And while we are so beyond disappointed in him for his part, we are more concerned about you. We worry for your health and well-being, and we worry for your heart.

Did you see a Healer after the incident? Have you seen one since? I know this is awkward, but please be sure you have found out if you're pregnant or not. I am sure that you didn't contact an Auror because of the fear you must have felt. But did you tell any professors when you got to school? Perhaps even Madam Pomfrey?

I feel the most apologetic. You're my daughter. You are my daughter, and I failed to protect you. I can understand now why you wanted to leave on Christmas. I can only hope Draco is taking care of you and keeping you safe.

Harry and I are going to take care of this. I promise.

Love,

Molly and Arthur