Trigger warning: there is medical misinformation in this chapter.
I also included something that happened to me. I saw 5 doctors over the course of 2 years when I decided I wanted help for my ED. 5 of them told me "Black people don't get eating disorders," "you're overweight, so you don't have a disorder," and "you look fine, so it's not an issue right now."
I told doctor number 6, "If you don't put me into treatment, I'll purge until I die." She saved my life.
Apricity – Chapter Forty
Time passed, Winter fading into Spring with frost melting into dewdrops on the leaves.
A routine was achieved by both Draco and Hermione that involved the most hands-on approach to her recovery that Draco could think of. He spent every waking moment he could with her, finding that if they acted like it was still the final week of Winter break, they could ignore the problems. When they weren't in class, they lounged about in his bed, reading, smoking, and snogging. When it was time to go to class, Draco walked her to and from. At mealtimes, she ate without protest, much like she had in London.
When March 15th dawned, Hermione woke with a start. The light outside was still a dark cobalt, signifying that the sun hadn't yet peeked over the horizon, but night had passed.
Draco woke to the feeling of her hand shaking him with a violence. He was on his stomach, arms hugging his pillow, but he rolled onto his side immediately.
"What? What?!" he cried, his heart racing.
"I don't feel good," she said, her voice small and eyes wide. Her kinky curls had come out of her bonnet while she was asleep, causing them to be bunched up in several places.
Draco yawned and sat up, rubbing his eye with his knuckle. "What's the matter?"
"My chest feels cold," she said, and her voice shook. "It feels—it feels cold, and my arms feel like they're shaking. I don't know. I don't know how to explain it. It was like—like I was fine and everything was working okay, and then it felt like something dropped."
Alarmed, the last vestiges of his slumber shattered and he turned his upper body toward her. One hand went to her back and the other to her chin, lifting it so he could inspect her face. He knew her face had nothing to do with any of it, but he didn't know what to do beside check her over.
"Does anything hurt? Are you breathing okay?"
"I feel like I can breathe fine. But my heart like . . ." She lowered her gaze as though she were ashamed to tell him. "It fluttered. It didn't hurt, but it felt weird. And now it feels like my arms are—they're tingling? I don't know. Draco, I don't know. I don't—"
"Shh, shh," he whispered, curving one arm around her shoulder and the other sliding into the depths of her curls to press her head against his chest. "You're shaking."
"It doesn't feel right. I don't feel right."
"Well, then we'll go to Madam Pomfrey," he said.
She said nothing, but she didn't have to. Draco knew Madam Pomfrey would weigh her again. It had been over a month since she'd finished taking her prescribed potions. Thanks to Draco's intervention, it was clear to him that Hermione had gained weight. He wasn't sure if she was at a place where she was healthy, but it was good enough for him.
Hermione was trying. That's what mattered.
"Come on," he said, letting go of her. "I'll even go in with you this time."
She perked up. "You will?"
"Yeah," he said with a lopsided grin before he placed his feet on the floor. "Let's get dressed and get down there. Then we can catch breakfast."
After dressing in their uniforms, Draco and Hermione worked together with two pick combs, water, and a hair potion to get the knots out of her natural hair.
By the time it was fluffy and defying gravity just the way it was meant to, Draco's arms were tired. He leaned against the wall, watching with interest as she pulled her hair back into two braids in a row on either side of her head. She had synthetic hair that looked fairly real out on the counter that she'd retrieved from her room and she was feeding the hair into each braid as she went. With the extra hair, she was able to make the braids reach thin to her hips.
"I love your hair," he said quietly, watching her fingers moving faster than he could ever duel with his wand. He could hear her nails clicking together as she worked.
Her expression was disbelieving, her lips pursed. "Mm-hm."
"No, I'm serious."
"You always hated it," she said. "Don't try to act like you didn't."
"No," he murmured, resting the side of his head against the doorframe. "I just didn't understand it. I understand you now."
She raised one eyebrow. "Because my race is something you need to understand for it to become acceptable?"
"Of course not," he said, moving closer. He slid his arms around her from behind, bending down to rest his chin on her shoulder. "I've come to realize that me being cruel to you was a result of me being afraid of something I didn't understand. My parents let me believe that Muggle-borns were something different. I made fun of your hair because it was something I saw that could be targeted, even though I knew there was nothing inherently wrong with you. And it was wrong. I get that now."
"I struggle to see where you deserve the medal." She continued to braid her second braid, but the corners of her lips were twitching upward in the faintest of smiles. "O tall, white King."
Draco burst out laughing and pressed a series of playful kisses to her cheek before his chin returned to her shoulder.
"I don't deserve a medal," he said. "I don't want one. I have the only thing I want. But what I need is to put the work in—to earn your forgiveness for that part of our past. Your hair is amazing, exactly the way it is."
"But I don't need your permission for it to be amazing."
"No. But I think it's stunning anyway. There's a lot of things about you that I find stunning. But I won't deny that I'm ashamed of the way I treated you. It feels unforgivable, in a lot of ways."
He grew lost in thought, in guilt that ran deeper than his mother's death and his poor choices. In the type of guilt that fear exacerbated.
What if she died, and he never got to finish proving himself to her?
"It's something you have to work to unlearn," she said after a moment, resting the back of her head against the front of his shoulder. Her hands moved to cover his as she looked at his reflection through her lashes. Her eyebrows lifted upward as she spoke. "You can't be my Pureblood saviour or my Pureblood knight. But you can unlearn the things you were taught."
Draco watched her as she spoke, watched the strength seem to weave its way through her words without her needing to be overt about it, and he realized something about her. Something that smashed into him like a blow directly to the heart. Something that showed him that no matter what she'd been through—the trauma, the pain, the suffering—she was someone who could always say that she'd survived.
Yes, she wasn't well. Yes, she needed help. But the incident in Paris hadn't destroyed her. It had taken the pieces of her heart that she'd already cherished and showed her how important it was to keep them intact. Her disorder was a result of her trying to get them back because she didn't understand that they had never been taken away from her. But he was looking at her now, listening to her words, watching the proud way she lifted her chin while she looked at him in the mirror, and he could see those pieces shining like diamonds in her eyes.
Hermione wasn't a victim. She'd never been a victim.
She was victorious.
"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his eyes locked onto hers. "You're everything."
When she smiled, for the briefest moment, it reached her eyes.
xxx
Draco threaded his fingers through Hermione's own on the way to Madam Pomfrey's, and he didn't let go until Hermione was seated on an Infirmary bed. Her palm was slick with sweat and she looked paler than usual. The way the sweat beaded on her forehead beneath her curly fringe concerned him.
What if his intervening hadn't helped? What if she'd been doing this good for a month because she was trying to play pretend? As sick as she was, it just wasn't plausible that she could be doing better this quickly. Even if she was recovering, there was no guarantee that it would be enough to save her life.
He'd read the books Rose gave him, yes, but they were surface compared to the depths of pain that Hermione's disorder caused. This type of pain—this insecurity, this inability to predict what her body was going to do—wasn't something that could be read in a book. He knew that. Books didn't talk about recovery or causes—they only talked about symptoms.
They were flying blind.
Madam Pomfrey eyed him for a moment but seemed to accept their relationship as ordinary. Then, she began to speak to Hermione.
During the appointment, Draco sat down on the edge of the bed next to Hermione's, his back slouched and his forearms on his thighs. The troubled expression he wore on his face felt permanent as he watched Pomfrey use spells and contraptions in the Infirmary to check all of Hermione's vitals. When Hermione described the way she felt to the older nurse, Madam Pomfrey's frown deepened.
"It may be your electrolytes again," she said. "If they drop too low, it can cause the symptoms you're describing. It can also stop your heart, Hermione."
"What can I do? I took the potions you talked about, and I haven't—" Hermione sucked in her breath, her wide-eyed gaze sliding to meet Draco's. He felt helpless. "I mean, I took the potions you told me to take. I haven't been stressed out. My electrolytes should be fine."
Madam Pomfrey crossed her arms over her bosom, her lips twisting to the side as she scrutinized Hermione. Draco could tell—she was squirming underneath her stare. She crossed her ankles and uncrossed them. She fidgeted with the hem of her uniform skirt. She swallowed again and again, like her throat was dry.
"Hermione, I have to ask you a question."
Draco saw her face falling, her head tipping down. She knew what was coming. He knew what was coming. He felt his stomach churning. He dropped his head into his hands where Pomfrey couldn't see, the exhaustion settling deep within him. Sadness weighed him down, nearly dragging tears to his eyes.
He couldn't do this again. He knew he couldn't go through this again, but there was nothing he could do.
"What is it?" Hermione asked, voice meek.
"Are you throwing up your food?"
Draco felt something visceral ripping through him. He scrubbed his hands down his face and sat up straight. He glanced off to the right, out the windows. It was easier to look away, to pretend he was somewhere else. To pretend this didn't hurt.
The tension mounted, becoming something frantic, and then Hermione was stammering.
"I used to. I did, I was—I used to, but I don't do it anymore. I haven't done it. He doesn't let—I mean, I'm better. I am. I don't do it anymore."
Madam Pomfrey appeared disturbed as she regarded Draco.
He lowered his gaze, the weight of her revulsion pulling him down. Of course he would be blamed, even when he was just trying to help.
But this was the first time Hermione had admitted to someone other than him that she was sick. This was another milestone, even if it had nothing to do with him. And it was confusing.
How could they be reaching milestones without her getting any better?
"Hermione, I'll have to report this to the Headmistress if this is true," Madam Pomfrey said. "The risks with this are very, very high. They are risks that can't be fixed with potions and magic."
"I know," Hermione whispered, head still down. Her shame was palpable. "I don't do it anymore, though. I'm getting—I'm better. I don't have a disorder."
Draco tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. He was no good guy, but the lying was too much. He couldn't take it, knowing that every lie she told just rang another knock against Death's door. The blame he placed on himself was beginning to tear pieces of his heart off and burn them to ash.
Because she wasn't better. She couldn't possibly be. There was no fucking way that she was completely better after one month.
He'd seen the way she looked at herself in the mirror. He'd heard her crying in the shower through the open loo door. He'd watched the way the shame sapped the color in her eyes when she was forced to use her wand to Transfigure her clothes to adjust to her weight.
It felt like they were one step away from the edge and when they went over, he'd have to watch her hit the ground first.
"No, I don't think you have an eating disorder," Madam Pomfrey said, waving a dismissive hand. "Typically, Black women don't develop eating disorders. The statistics just don't support that. But throwing up your food can be extremely damaging to your health."
Draco stared at Madam Pomfrey in shock. He had no idea how to respond to that. It was so fucking wrong that his words had been obliterated by sheer disgust. He looked at Hermione next, and she just looked confused.
Madam Pomfrey sighed. "I think I'd like to check your weight again before I can believe that you're not still making yourself sick. Why don't you go step on the scale?"
Hermione gulped and hopped down to the floor. She walked over to the corner of the Infirmary, where there was a large Muggle scale. It was green and made of metal. Draco watched as Hermione hesitated, barely holding his anger back behind a barrier.
"Go ahead," Madam Pomfrey said, tone stern yet encouraging. "It's just the scale, honey. Just like last time."
But it was different this time. Draco wanted to say that—to tell Madam Pomfrey that she hadn't purged in four weeks because he hadn't allowed it—but he felt like his breath had been stolen away from his lungs.
Wait.
No.
He'd read it in one of the books. When patients went into see a Healer—or a Muggle doctor—they were weighed and not told their weight. Hermione needed to close her eyes or turn around—to stand backwards. She could look at him, not the number.
She could look at him.
Draco stood up. He opened his mouth, but he was too late.
"Hermione, this is good news!" Madam Pomfrey said, the shorter woman beaming up at her from underneath her mane of grey waves. "You've gained a full twenty pounds since your last visit! I don't know how you did it so fast, but I think this is really, really good to see."
Hermione was as silent as the shadows of death.
"I'm still going to have to report this to the Headmistress," Madam Pomfrey went on to say, her hand coming up to press flat to the center of Hermione's upper back. She patted her as she walked back to the bed. "I hope you understand. Now, as for the tingling you were experiencing, that could just be from anxiety. If you're not throwing up anymore, then your electrolytes should be fine by now."
"And the fluttering?" Hermione asked, moving to stand next to Draco with her hand drifting behind their backs. Draco reached behind him to grab onto her fingers, his thumb massaging the inside of her palm. "The way my heart skipped beats?"
"Heart palpitations can also be caused by anxiety," Madam Pomfrey said. "I don't think it's anything to worry about. I think you just had a run-of-the-mill anxiety attack. Nonetheless, I'll prescribe you a Calming Draught that you can take at night."
Draco stood idle as Hermione accepted three vials of the medicine and then headed over to him. He didn't care that Madam Pomfrey was there, watching. He put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side. He was relieved at Madam Pomfrey's diagnosis but also perplexed.
He knew what anxiety felt like. What Hermione had described didn't sound like anxiety.
"Mr. Malfoy, wait. May I speak with you?"
Fuck.
Draco squeezed Hermione's shoulder, nodding silently to the doors. Hermione nodded back, her facial expression forlorn as she exited into the hallway.
"What did you need to discuss?" he asked, adjusting the lapels of his blazer as he turned to face the Healer.
Madam Pomfrey approached him, her brow furrowed.
"How long has she been sick?"
Draco's stomach turned with the force of his nerves.
"A while," he said.
"And has she sought medical help before?"
He clenched his teeth against the tension in his body. He was bonded to Hermione, essentially her husband in all magical circuits. He was the one to speak to.
But he didn't want to talk about it.
"Isn't this something you should discuss with your patient?" he asked, his eyes settling upon her with the coldness he felt inside. He wished he was still a Death Eater sometimes. After what Madam Pomfrey had said to Hermione, it made him want to cast an Unforgivable.
"Draco." Madam Pomfrey sounded exasperated. "This isn't something you can fight on your own. She needs to go to St. Mungo's, and she needs treatment. There are facilities she can go to. Places that can help."
"She told you she wasn't doing it anymore. She gained weight. Why would you let her think you believed her if you didn't?"
"Don't be daft, young man." Madam Pomfrey scoffed. "If I told her I was hauling her off to St. Mungo's, what do you think she would do? She'd leave Hogwarts before anyone could get her help. I know how these things work."
"As if I'd let her—" Draco practically snarled, cutting himself off. He turned away, running his hands through his hair. Turning back to the Healer, he said, "Look, I've got this. I do. She gained because of me. She stopped doing it because of me. All I have to do is—"
"Oh, Draco," she said, sighing heavily with visible pity. "You can't save her. You can't. This isn't something you can fight."
Draco didn't want to hear that. It was wrong. She was wrong.
Because he knew that he could have saved his mother. If he would have just been diligent, been more aware of what was going on, and been more involved. And if he would have saved his mother, she'd be alive, wouldn't she?
Hermione wasn't going to die.
Anger rising to the surface of his sensibilities, he loomed over the Healer. He pointed a furious finger at the ground.
"I can handle this. I can and I will. You don't know anything about her, or me, or what our relationship is like. Because if you did, then you would have figured it out a month ago when she came in here before. But you—none of you—can see past your own vision of her and who you think she is."
"That's not—"
"She's suffering," Draco snapped. "She's suffering, and none of you care. None of you adults have ever cared about any of us. We've all just been—been pawns for you people. You used her, you used me, and you used Potter. You used us all. And now we're all fucked in the head."
"Draco, you need to calm down." Madam Pomfrey reached for him, but he ripped himself away, throwing his arms up into the air.
"Don't touch me," he spat. "Don't . . . Touch me."
He turned and walked towards the door. She called after him.
"I still have to report this to Headmistress McGonagall. I'm sorry, Draco."
"Yeah," he hissed to himself through his teeth. "Me, too."
Draco jogged to catch up with Hermione, taking her left hand in his right and holding it with both of his own. He pressed it against his chest as they exited the building, all the way back to the bridge. It felt like it was so frail—like he would break her simply from being too overbearing. Or too protective.
Their feet were dull against the wooden slats of the bridge. The sun was high and bright, but the early Spring temperature was cold enough to seep through Draco's blazer and shirt. He brought Hermione's icy fingers up to his lips, kissing them again and again.
They felt so precious to him.
As they came to the halfway point of the bridge, they seemed to come to a mutual agreement to stop.
"Hermione," he said. "I—"
"I guess it's over soon," she interjected in a soft voice. "Once she tells McGonagall."
Draco pressed his lips into a firm line. He wanted to tell her that it wasn't gonna happen. That he was gonna take care of her, that the adults had failed them all and didn't deserve to be the ones who watered her roots when he'd been tending to them all along.
But it would be selfish.
"They're gonna get you help, Hermione. Real help—help I can't give."
"No."
He raised his eyebrows. "No?"
"No." Her eyes blazed up at him, wild and afraid.
"I don't think you have a choice," he said, his voice gentle as he took her by the elbows and pulled her closer.
Her face grew pinched, screwing up with emotion as she fought back tears. "I have to have a choice. They can't force me to do anything I don't want to do. If I don't want to go, they can't make me."
"You're right," he murmured, his hands sliding up to her biceps. "They can't. But I can."
She looked up at him, inhaling to speak, but he silenced her with his lips. It took a moment, but she melted into the kiss with her head tilted back and mouth open to him. A sigh escaped from her and he devoured it, just like he devoured her with his tongue brushing against hers. Her fingers wrapped around his blazer lapels, gripping the fabric tight as she anchored herself to them and pushed onto the tips of her toes.
"And if they tell you to go to St. Mungo's," he breathed, pressing kisses along her jaw while his fingers trailed up the sides of her neck, "then you're going."
"But—"
"Hush," he said, and then he kissed her lips again.
Hermione threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back, tasting him like a woman parched. Like she'd been dragging herself through a desert devoid of him for a century. She leaned into him and he held her, his hands sliding up her back in reverence. He could feel her heart beating against the cages of her chest, as though it were reaching for him, too.
Draco wondered if she knew how much he cherished those victorious pieces of her precious heart.
"Draco," she said quietly after she pulled back.
"Yes?" He kissed her cheek, then her cheekbone.
"What if I'm not really sick? What if it's all in my head? What if I'm—I'm faking it?"
"No. You're not faking it. It's real. It's valid."
"But Madam Pomfrey said that girls like me—"
"No," Draco growled, his hands starting to quiver. He closed his eyes. "No. And I'm not trying to be your Pureblood saviour or anything but . . . She was wrong. Whatever she thinks—whatever she's studied—is wrong. You are sick. You do have a disorder. And you're valid. But if McGonagall comes calling, you're going with her. Those two things can exist at the same time. Do you understand me?"
"Yes," she whispered, lowering her head.
Draco felt like he was playing chess, adjusting his moves and inching his pieces to the left and right, forward and back. Like if he made one wrong move, his army would fall. He had to make the right decisions. The right moves.
The right choices.
He grabbed her chin and dragged it back up. He gave her a serious look, holding her in place before he kissed her again. They shared another few sweet kisses before he took her by the hand and they left the bridge. It was time to tackle breakfast.
Draco could feel it.
A storm, brewing on the horizon of not only their relationship, but their lives. Like heavy dark clouds of something destructive and unavoidable. Anger like thunder and worry like rain. Anxiety, the heat in the air. When he looked at her, searching for those victorious pieces, it was like they were hidden by darkness. He could feel it.
She was going to fall apart.
xxx
He woke up at one in the morning to the smell of cooked meat.
It was bacon or sausage—something aromatic. His bedroom door was cracked open, light from the kitchen peeking into the room from the crack. Confused, he threw the coverlet aside and walked out to see what was going on.
Hermione stood in front of one kitchen counter, a butter knife sawing through the center of a bagel. The hood of the jumper was up and her legs were bare, feet clad in fuzzy socks. On the counter were several plastic containers full of fully-cooked breakfast food, their lids set beside them as the steam rose from their depths. On the stove, there were three pans: one with eggs, one with ham, and one with potatoes.
He placed his hand on the back of one of the chairs at the table, leaning on it. His other hand went to his hip. After a moment of watching her, listening to the sizzling coming from the stove, he cleared his throat.
She screamed, her shoulders jumping with fright. Her hood fell off as she whirled around, revealing her silk bonnet and the face of a very terrified woman.
"I wasn't gonna eat any of it," she stammered, eyes wide. "I swear. I promise."
"Then what were you going to do with it?"
"Just . . . Look at it. I don't know." She scrambled to set the bagel down onto the plate she'd grabbed, and he could see a tub of cream cheese on the counter next to it. She turned to face the counter. He saw her heaving for breath, in a near-panic.
"Hermione, were you going to binge on all of this?"
"No!" she shrieked, remaining faced away from him. "No, I wasn't. I just wanted to look at it."
"You can't expect me to believe that."
She spun again, her expression anxious. "And what are you going to do about it, huh? Call McGonagall? Because who knows when Poppy's going to—" She broke off with a sound of anguish and buried her face in her hands for a moment. Then, with a scowl, she gave him an exhausted look. "Any day now, they're going to call me down there to talk to them, or send someone here, or take me away to somewhere. And then I won't get to—I won't have it anymore."
Draco watched her.
She held a hand to her cheek, looking down at the ground. "I won't have it anymore and I need to do this so I can . . . Can . . ."
"Control it?"
She burst out into tears, her body wracked with the emotions as she sobbed. Those tears sprung to her eyes and rained down her cheeks within seconds. She clutched her hands close to her chest, curling in on herself as though she were exposed to the elements with nothing to shield her body.
Which in a way, he supposed she was. The things she'd been through had stripped her bare and left her without any weapons with which to fight. And when she did possess a weapon, the battle was strenuous and difficult.
Even the victorious needed to rest.
Draco was across the room before she could say anything.
"Why did she have to say that?" she cried. "I don't understand why she'd say that we don't get disorders, then tell me she's going to report me to McGonagall. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Nothing is wrong with you," he said, his voice gentle as his arms wrapped around her. His hand cupped the back of her head, the bonnet's silk soft beneath his touch. "You're just not well."
Draco tried to push his ire back, knowing that remaining angry with the school Healer wasn't going to solve anything. What she'd said was reprehensible and utterly wrong, but that didn't mean that it was true. He knew what was going on.
Hermione felt invalidated.
She felt invalidated and as she shook in his arms, he could tell she was terrified. Possibly of him, possibly of McGonagall. The future. Change. Losing control of everything.
The only thing he was sure of was that Hermione had been sitting out in the middle of the ice, waiting to freeze for way, way too long. Instead speeding up the process by taking warmth away from her, or trying to force her to warm up and melt, he was going to join her.
He would freeze, too.
"Okay, look," he said, holding her at arm's length while continuing to run his hands up and down her shoulders. "Why don't we finish making the food you have on the stove, and then we can look at it together?"
A tear rolled down her cheek as she pouted up at him. He brushed it away.
"Okay?"
"All right," she said, sniffling. "But aren't you angry?"
"No," he said, holding her face and pressing a kiss to her forehead.
He didn't know how to tell her that no matter how angry he was with Madam Pomfrey, he wasn't angry with her for wanting to report to McGonagall. Deep down, there was a part of him that was relieved. He wanted to believe he could save her, but with every wrong choice he made—every wrong turn in the road—he just seemed to make everything worse. He'd made so many mistakes that the thought of passing her off to someone else for recovery sounded so . . .
Good.
Draco hated himself for that.
Later, after the food was put away and they were back in bed, they laid down and faced one another.
"I'm scared," she whispered. "I don't know what's gonna happen. That terrifies me."
"Did McGonagall call you down to her office during class or anything today?"
"No," she mumbled.
"Then don't worry about it right now."
"I'm worrying. I didn't think I would gain so much. I knew I would gain, but I . . ."
He lifted his hand and held it to her face, his thumb stroking her skin until she trailed off. Their eyes searched one another's. Seconds ticked by, and then their breathing synced.
"Don't worry about it," he murmured. "This is a good thing."
"It doesn't feel good."
Draco's overwhelming emotions pushed him to rain kisses across his witch's cheeks and down the line of her throat. He kissed the tracks of her dried tears, tasted the remnants of her pain like the salt of the Earth. Because she was the light in his world, even if she was suffering. She brought something to his life—a purpose. A reason.
Everything.
"My bonnet," she gasped.
"Leave it on."
She turned her face toward him and their lips slammed together with a fervent desire that Draco hadn't realized he was feeling. Their kisses were brief, nothing like the drawn-out ones they'd shared before. This time, it felt like it was just a means to an end. A pathway to getting as close to each other as possible. He didn't know how she felt, but he knew that after waking up to find her in such a vulnerable state, terrified of him and frightened of her future, he just wanted to sink inside of her and chase it all away.
"Spread your legs," he whispered against her lower abdomen as he dragged her knickers down and discarded them somewhere beneath the sheets. His fingers trailed over her skin, soft and all his.
His fingers found her core, drawing a soft moan from her lips as he brought his mouth to her clit. Her thighs parted and she cried out, her feet against the mattress providing an anchor so she could grind herself along his tongue. Her hands gripped the sheets and her chest arched towards the sky.
"I'm already gonna come," she squeaked out in desperation, her body twitching as his tongue flicked against her clit with gentle, slow movements. "Gods, Draco—please. Please don't stop. I'll do anything—please don't stop."
Because he knew the way she liked it. Draco knew her body, how it responded when he was soft with her. It was like playing an instrument, something as beautiful as stroking his fingers across the golden strings of a harp.
When she came, she clutched both sides of his head and held him in place, her moans sending need curling through his lower body. Blood rushed South, and then he was crawling up the length of her body. They kissed, their tongues caressing, his hips moving against hers as he felt the wetness of her center through the fabric of his pyjama trousers.
"I'm scared, too," he said, stilling the motion of his hips so he could lift himself up on his hands. "But it's okay. I'm not going anywhere, even if they take you away."
"I don't know where they're going to take me," she said, sounding sad. "I don't know how bad it will get."
"Healing is never bad," he said. "It's already gotten bad enough. It's bad right now. If they take you away, then there's only a path upward that's left for you to climb."
"I don't want them to take me away." She closed her eyes and he saw another tear escaping out of the corner of her eyes. "I don't know."
"I do know," he said, his hand sliding up the back of her thigh as his other hand pushed his pants down. She gasped when he sank inside of her, her walls clutching him in deeper and deeper. Her eyes never left his. "I do know."
The sensations of her sent him spinning into shadows and pleasure, hot and tight and velvet-smooth as she wrapped around his cock. Her hands clenched into fists by her head, each slam of his hips into hers causing her breathing pattern to stutter. His fingers curled into the mattress as his arm held himself up, and he felt the slickness of her swollen clit beneath the pads of the forefingers of his right hand. His hair fell into his eyes.
"Draco." Another gasp. "That feels . . . So . . . So good."
"Come on," he breathed as he thrust. His stomach clenched and unclenched, overcome with emotions he couldn't quite understand. Emotions that brought a sting to his eyes that he hid with his lips against her ear. "Come on, love. I wanna feel you come on me. I need to feel it."
Her back arched as he hit a spot inside of her that split her apart, and then she was crying out his name. He'd never heard her do that when they were fucking, but it was everything to him. She was everything to him and if he lost her—
A sadness came over him like a shudder and he wrapped his arms around her, crushing her against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, letting out another groan. Her arms snaked around his neck, her thighs spreading as wide as she could so she could grind her pearl against his pelvis. He thrust hard, firm in his strokes, until she went slack below him so he was doing the grinding for her.
"You're—You're making me come," she whined, her voice high-pitched and strained by his ear. "I'm gonna fucking come again."
"Yeah?" he hissed through his teeth, reaching down to pin one of her thighs flat to the mattress. He rolled his hips as he ground against her, relishing in the way she continued to sob. "You're such a sweet girl for me, aren't you? That's it. That's it, come again for me, sweet girl."
She took several deep, halting breaths inward, her back slowly arching higher as she did, and then she let them out in guttural moan. Draco pulled his head back, watching as her eyes rolled up into her head and sent her into the stars. Stars that bonded them together and stars that could tear them apart. Stars that he would bring to her if he could.
As she came down from her high, Hermione surprised him by hooking a leg around his hips and rolling him onto his back. Still wearing the hooded jumper, she leaned forward, her hands pressing flat to his bare chest, fingers tracing the outlines of his tattoos. He choked on the air he breathed as she began a steady rise and fall.
"Do you like when I do this?" she whispered, her hips moving faster.
"Fuck." Draco dragged the word out, lifting his head to watch her impale herself upon his cock again and again, the moonlight from the window illuminating it. He nodded, frantic motions of his head. "Yeah."
"Why?"
"It's m-my—" His breath caught on a moan and his fingertips dug into the flesh of her thighs. "—favorite. Oh, fuck. Fuck."
"And this?" she moaned.
Her fingers slid up to his throat, covered his roses and chains, and choked him.
"Slower, sl-slower. Ah, yeah." His head fell back, his own back arching up as she followed his instructions and slowed her hips. Tingling shivers ran throughout his entire body. He groaned, deep in his chest as his hips bucked. He could feel her fingers pressing into the sides of his throat, felt his air being constricted. It made his head spin. "Fuck, it's so fucking good."
He could feel it coming closer, creeping along the edges of his consciousness. He bit his lip, looking down to watch again. He loved to see it, loved to watch what she did to his body as she wrestled him into a state of submissiveness with the whispers of her core.
"Come on. That's a good girl. Make me come," he growled through his teeth, past his lack of air, desperate as he gripped her rear and pulled her backward and forward. He could feel himself inside of her, every inch of himself touching every inch of her.
Her fingers squeezed his throat tighter, until he couldn't speak. He couldn't do anything except feel.
Draco came suddenly and without warning, his hips jerking as he emptied himself inside of her. He felt the euphoria washing over him in waves, rippling along his muscles and drawing him to sit up. He slid his arms around her waist, fingers sliding up her spine so he could lift her off of him. They kissed as he did, her fingers tickling his scalp as she tilted her head to the side and rested her elbows on his shoulders.
After murmured cleaning and contraceptive spells, he didn't have the energy to do anything other than lay down, hold her close, and sleep.
xxx
The next day, Hermione didn't show up to Charms.
Draco sat in his usual seat, casting glances toward the door. Where was she? She should have gotten here before him. Her first class was closer than his was. If it weren't for the fact that he'd had to stay after, he would have picked her up at her classroom like he always did.
He couldn't shake the anxiety that had dug its claws into his heart, restricting its beating and making it difficult for him to breathe.
What if something was wrong?
Fifteen minutes into the start of class, when she still hadn't come, Draco moved to sit beside Pansy while Flitwick's back was turned. The other students looked at him, but no one said anything. He leaned over and murmured to her, asking if she'd seen Hermione.
"I thought you always picked her up from her class," Pansy whispered, her expression perturbed. "Did you not do it today?"
He shook his head. Flitwick was in front of the room, lecturing, so Draco kept his voice down when he spoke.
"No, I had to stay after in Muggle Studies to fix something on an assignment I turned in. By the time I was done, I figured she would have just gone on her own. Did you see her in the corridors at all?"
Pansy shook her head, her black hair shaking around her. "Maybe she skived off class?"
"Yeah. Maybe."
Except that she wouldn't do that. Not after everything they'd been through. She knew the rules. She knew that Draco dropped her off at and picked her up from every class. He would have thought that her fear of his reaction would be enough to keep her following those rules, but apparently not.
So where was she?
Draco didn't make it much longer in class. Between his leg bouncing under the table with his heavy agitation and the violent way his stomach kept clenching, there was no way that he could stay there. While Flitwick was in the middle of demonstrating a new charm for them, he gathered up all of his things and stormed out of the room.
Flitwick called after him in confusion, but Draco ignored him.
He needed to find Hermione.
Draco rushed back to the common room, knowing that it was best to check there first. There was always the chance that she was napping or just wanted a break because she wasn't feeling well. She also could have gotten called down to McGonagall's office. There were many possibilities.
Why was he only thinking of one?
When he made it back to the main floor corridor, he took off at a sprint past the doors to the Great Hall. He skidded to a halt by the portrait, seeing to his surprise that Dumbledore wasn't there. He didn't know if he could get in, but he said the password anyway.
Nothing happened.
Dragging his hands through his hair, he felt himself growing close to panic. Something was wrong. It was inside of him—a feeling he couldn't shake that she was hurt or in trouble. He didn't know what it could possibly be that was wrong, but it felt off. Like putting his trousers on backward or holding his wand at the wrong end. It nagged at the back of his mind, refusing to let him calm down until he got answers.
Fuck it. He would destroy the portrait if he had to.
He stepped up, curling his fingers around the edge of the portrait's frame. The chance was slim, especially with Dumbledore gone. But what if Dumbledore was gone because he went to get help?
Draco pulled.
It was open.
He didn't stop to analyze anything. He stepped inside.
The bathroom light was on.
No. Fuck no. There was no way that she would skip class just to purge. Not when the risk of him getting angry was still present. She wasn't stupid.
Seething, he stormed down the hall.
"Hermione fucking Granger, I know you're not skiving off class just so you can . . ."
He trailed off, his heart coming to a dead stop in his chest.
The loo was occupied.
Hermione was on the floor, collapsed on her side with her arms thrown haphazardly by her head and her legs closed as though she'd been on her knees before the porcelain. Theo stood over her, his face ashen and his hands sunk deep into his hair. There was vomit in the toilet and smeared across Hermione's face, red and orange mixed together like a disgusting tribute to the impending destruction of her disorder.
"I was just holding her hair back," Theo said. "I was just holding it back and then she just—fell over, I—I don't—"
"Shut up," Draco whispered, his hand trembling as he held it in the air for silence, "and move."
"I tried to rennervate her. It didn't work." There were tears in Theo's eyes as he moved back, towards the door to the loo so Draco could enter the room. "She gasped and fell over. I thought she was taking a break. I didn't know."
"I told you . . ." Draco pointed an angry finger in Theo's face, glaring at him with all the hatred he could muster. ". . . To shut. Up."
Theo's mouth closed.
Draco had barely the wherewithal to grasp that Theo was here because he was helping her. Didn't have the mental capacity to focus on the hows and the whys. He didn't care about that right now. He couldn't.
All he saw was Hermione, lying prone on the floor. Just like his mother, lying prone in his lap as her last breath escaped her before he could catch it. It was every nightmare he'd been fighting so hard to stop from coming true. Like a twisted version of the dream world they hadn't seen in weeks—a version where the sky rained acid, the ocean reared up in a destructive tidal wave, and the flowers were dead.
The wrong choices that he'd made had led to this.
"No, no, no," Draco said in a panicked rush of breath, falling to his knees beside Hermione, gathering her up into his arms. His fingers smeared through the vomit as he wiped it from her face. He was panicking—he could feel himself panicking. His voice broke. "No. You're not. You're fucking not. Come here. Come on."
Theo stepped forward from the hall. "Draco, I—"
"Shut your fucking mouth!" Draco roared. "Go get McGonagall."
"But—"
"No! Go fucking get McGonagall!"
A pained, terrified expression flashed across Theo's face, and then he turned and fled.
"Come on," Draco whispered, his voice nearly a whine. Why was her head lolling backward like that? His soiled fingers fluttered down to her pulse, pressing inward. Feeling. "Don't fucking leave me, Hermione. Don't fucking do this right now. Come on."
Why didn't he have the energy to tell her he loved her before they fell asleep last night?
His fingers moved across her throat.
Feeling. Searching. Trying to find a flicker of life.
Trying to find hope.
He held his breath.
She had no pulse.
