Don't Look Back
- 37 -
Romantic Notions / Pretty Things
April passes like a strange, potion-induced hallucination — gentle in some ways, and yet unrelenting in so many others.
Her talks through the Floo with Lupin and Tonks are never the highlight of the week. Ironic now, considering a few months ago she would've given anything for such a consistent line of communication. For their guidance.
A few months ago, discussing aspects of the bond at length would've been a great comfort.
Now, it proves tedious.
That night in Dumbledore's Office changed everything, and she finds she has so many more secrets to keep than she realized. So much to hide.
The book, for instance.
She can't sit there by the hearth and tell them the truth of it. Can't explain the way it miraculously reappeared — lying there waiting for her on her bed by the time she returned to the Gryffindor dormitory the next morning.
Because a house-elf would never lie to his Headmaster.
Which means it was undoubtedly missing at one point — and then undoubtedly returned.
This would only make Lupin more suspicious, as well as all the more likely to race back to the school and pry the book straight from her hands.
And she doesn't want it taken.
No, in fact she becomes so terrified of losing it, she forms a habit of carrying it with her everywhere. Guarding it, the same way Harry guards that copy of Advanced Potion Making — and she thinks perhaps she understands his behavior a little better now.
Books as special as these need to be protected.
She begins to wonder if perhaps it somehow concealed itself when Dumbledore sent Monty to fetch it. There's a cleverness within its pages. Bordering on sentience. She can feel it.
But Lupin's concerns span beyond The Will & The Way, and he seems to have decided that if he can't have it, picking her brain for every salvageable detail is the next best option. He drills her endlessly about the aspects of the bond he deems to be abnormal. He's yet to use the word unnatural, but she thinks it'll inevitably tumble out of his mouth at some point.
As it happens, there is a great deal of difference between the inner voice he and Tonks can hear — the one Tonks mentioned at Christmas — and the voice of her stranger.
Their voice doesn't argue. Doesn't have its own opinions on things. Doesn't even speak in complete sentences, as far as she's learned. From the way they describe it, it's truly an amalgamation of the two of them. A sort of stream-of-consciousness link between their minds.
It doesn't encourage. Doesn't threaten. Doesn't strike deals or make promises.
It simply is.
And the more the gap widens between her own experience and theirs, the more she's forced to doctor her responses.
"The voice is gone," becomes her token lie. "I don't hear it anymore."
Though, it's not really a lie, is it? Not completely. The stranger has been silent for weeks at this point, even in the circumstances he seems most likely to interject. But he doesn't feel gone.
It feels like he's sleeping. The way a true wolf might, curled up in a cave to ride out the long winter. Waiting.
Part of her is afraid to wake him.
Because Malfoy has somehow...thawed in his absence, relaxing into a version of himself she can't quite describe. One she's certainly never met before. The state of him feels fragile and ephemeral, and she's terrified that one word from the stranger might snuff it out forever.
This small, gentle flame she's come to like.
He did the unthinkable that night in the Head Girl's Dormitory. The thing she could never have expected.
He did as she asked.
And the moment that door clicked shut behind him, the nature of their bond fundamentally changed.
She'll never be sure why. Whether she simply pushed him just enough at just the right time, or — somehow — she pinched a nerve and exploited a deeper weakness. But however she managed it, the Draco Malfoy she now passes in the corridors is not the same boy who flaunted blood on his sleeves.
All at once, he's keeping to himself. Ignoring Harry. Ignoring Ron. Walking with his chin up and his eyes down, most of his focus suddenly diverted to his studies. And perhaps this in and of itself isn't all that surprising — after all, he promised as much.
What surprises her is the way he feeds.
Which — that's just it. He doesn't feed. Not a spoonful. Not a drop. If asked, she'd compare what he does to himself to fasting — and all the while, she sits at banquet.
When they meet in those broom cupboards, those shadows behind statues, those hidden places, it's always his wrist being offered. His throat presented to her lips. His blood staining teeth and hands. Happily, she gorges herself on the taste of him, sustained and healthy — practically glowing, she's so well-fed.
But each time she offers herself in return, he chooses instead to starve. Silently shakes his head, folding her outstretched fingers back into a fist and tucking that hand away.
His only sustenance is the ghost of hers, passed down to him secondhand through the bond.
And she thinks this might've terrified her — if she were unable to hear his thoughts. Not so long ago, she would've assumed he no longer liked the taste of her. No longer craved as she does.
But it's what he's thinking as he feeds her...
—give—
—give—
—for her—
—prove that I—
—worth it—
—to give—
—give—
These thoughts aren't frenzied. Not in the way she's witnessed in the past. There's no tinge of bitterness — no blatant lack of control. He sounds perfectly collected. Lucid and aware. As though he could truly stop himself at any time, but instead chooses not to.
And she likes that word — choose. It's not so often, with a bond like this, that she finds she gets to use it.
Even so, pleasant as it is, his behavior makes very little sense.
"Why are you being so generous?"
It takes her more than a week to work up the courage to ask, watching him carefully as he buttons his sleeve over the wrist she's freshly bruised. Always the right arm — never the left. She wonders if he does that on purpose.
"Generous?" he echoes, lifting an eyebrow — as though he finds the concept ridiculous.
She leans back against the door of the broom cupboard and fixes him with a steady gaze. "You know what I'm talking about." And then, when he gives no reply, "I think you misunderstood what I said that night."
He's now abruptly engrossed in the act of fixing his tie, perhaps just to avoid meeting her eyes. "How so?"
"I never wanted you to starve yourself."
A scoff as he bends to reach for his bag. "I'm not starving myself, Granger."
She's surprised by her own speed. Manages to prick her finger with her wand before he's fully straightened up — and by the time he does, it's to the fresh bead of blood she's offering. Held out just inches from his lips.
"Then eat," she says.
For a moment, his eyes can't help but fix on the blooming scarlet. Like a beacon, briefly hypnotizing him. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare. But then he breathes out sharply and comes to his senses, rising once more to his full height.
"I'm proving what you asked me to prove." He takes her wrist in hand, steadying it just long enough to cast a healing charm. The blood withdraws back beneath her skin, flesh starting to seal as he lets her arm fall away. "That I don't just want to feed."
"And punishing yourself is the only way to do that?"
He stiffens — a barely noticeable reaction to the words. But through the bond, she can feel the faintest, most infinitesimal electric twinge.
Exhilaration.
And a fist of disappointment tightens around her heart, because it suddenly makes some sense.
"Right. I forgot," she huffs, posture going slack as she lifts her finger to study the healed wound. "You're a masochist."
His bag hits the floor then. A loud thud to accompany his growl of frustration. "Oh, for Merlin's sake — what? What?" Without their silencing charms, he'd be heard across the corridor. "What will it take to make you believe there might be a moment in which I'm not entirely self-serving? Or is there nothing I can do?" He runs his hands through his hair. "Are you just — are you always going to be suspicious?"
"Can you really—"
"No, I can't blame you," he snaps, filling in the blanks. "Of course I can't. But I also can't snap my fingers and do away with the last five years. I can't just erase our history. It doesn't work like that."
"I know it doesn't, but I—"
"What will it take?"
A silencing demand. A stalemate. He crosses his arms over his chest and forms a stance that suggests he isn't moving until she gives him an answer.
"For me to trust you?" Her eyebrows lift.
"Yes."
"The truth?"
"Yes."
"Time," she says simply, unable to help a small shrug.
Malfoy doesn't like this answer. Inhales as though to hide his frustration, briefly glancing at the expanse of floor between the tips of their shoes. And the emotion that rushes through him is swift, yet unmistakable.
"Why does that make you jealous?"
His jaw tinges red, exposed by the bond, and for a moment he seems to debate with himself whether or not to answer. Eventually can't manage to hold it in.
"You didn't need time before," he murmurs. "Not when he was here."
"He?"
"Your stranger." The word is a curse on his tongue. "When he was here, you were only too happy to give yourself to me. Whether for feeding or not." He's still looking at the ground — glaring at it now. "But now that he's finally given me space, you want me to prove myself. And when I do—" A humorless laugh. "—when I actually do try to prove myself, I'm apparently doing it all wrong."
"Malfoy..."
"I feel like I'm lost in a maze." His eyes finally meet hers, alarming in their clarity. "Your mind is a maze, and I have no idea where I'm going. Every path is a dead end."
That fist around her heart clenches to the point of pain, and for a moment she's stripped of her words.
He looks sad and vulnerable, standing there — like a lost boy waiting to be claimed. And the sight makes it impossible not to go to him. To give in to a moment of tenderness she's not quite sure she's earned.
"And here I thought poetry wasn't in your nature," she says quietly, taking his face in her hands even as he stiffens.
"It's not."
"Then you have a mind for clever metaphors." Softly, her thumb brushes across the swell of his bottom lip, and she feels his breath hitch against her skin. "Trust takes time to earn. I'll earn yours as you earn mine, moment by moment. I don't expect you to overwrite the past. And I don't expect you to starve."
"Then what do you want from me?" It's barely a whisper, his eyes downcast, lashes painting spiderweb shadows over his cheeks.
"Depth," she says. "Intimacy. A relationship beyond the bond."
Malfoy huffs, and his lips move against her thumb. "What — you want roses?" A sarcastic question, but no sarcasm in his voice. "Flowers and love letters and pretty things..."
At this, she takes his chin in hand, dragging it downward so his gaze is forced to level with hers. "Do I look like I care about pretty things?"
"I don't know."
"And that's just it." Freeing him, she takes a measured step back, leaning against the door once more. His eyes follow her. "We don't know each other. Not in the slightest."
"The Veritaserum—" he counters, but she cuts him off swiftly.
"That was a silly game. A few solitary details I could count on one hand." She shrugs. "I know you wanted to be a wandmaker, but I don't know you. And I want to."
"How?" Another huff. "By going on dates? We can't be seen together."
Oddly enough, she's shy to say what she does next — out of everything they've discussed. "Dates...don't have to be in public."
His brows raise, that sad look fading into the background. "That's what you want? A date?"
"Would it be so hard?"
The thick silence that follows is very telling.
Swallowing back a sigh, she heaves her bag onto her shoulder and opens the door behind her.
"Nevermind, then. I'll see you in class," she murmurs, and slips out through the gap.
She's been having strange dreams all month, but this might be the strangest yet.
Because in this dream, she's dancing.
Right hand clasped in a gentle grip and left resting on his shoulder, she spins round and round across a checker-tiled ballroom floor. He smells lovely — her partner, sweet and smokey fig scent all-encompassing with her nose tucked into his chest. And though she can't see his face, she recognizes the voice of the stranger.
He whispers that he misses her.
Whispers that it's all for good reason.
And just before she wakes, he tells her it won't be long.
Malfoy's voice pulls her from sleep. It's around one o'clock — possibly even two in the morning, and he's speaking to her across the bond.
Granger. Granger, wake up.
Sweeping the hair out of her face, she rolls over in bed and rubs at the corners of her eyes.
Is something wrong?
They didn't feed again after their discussion in the broom cupboard, and perhaps they should have. He might be feeling unwell.
But as she's searching the bond for any such evidence, he says —
No. Just get dressed.
For a moment, she's ashamed to consider this might be some sort of trap. Something that dark, third entity would think to orchestrate. It's not often that Malfoy communicates through the bond, especially this late at night. But this voice is his voice — nothing like that of the monster. And the full moon is still a week out.
Honestly, he huffs, tracking her thoughts. If I were planning to murder you, I'd be more clever about it.
Within ten minutes, she's dressed and on her way out. She takes extra care to step lightly as she passes Lavender's four-poster, and even more care as she pads across the empty common room, checking every corner for wayward Gryffindors not yet asleep. But there's no one to intercept her. No one all the way from the portrait hole to the ground floor of the castle's West Wing, where he asked her to meet him. The Prefects are easy enough to avoid.
Malfoy is standing just outside the double doors in the cold when she arrives, dressed in a thick, hooded jumper and some expensive-looking padded gloves.
"Granger," is his flat greeting.
"Malfoy," she replies, burrowing inside her coat and shrinking her hands back into the sleeves for warmth. "What on Earth is going on?"
"Thought you'd forget to bring gloves," he says simply, and a moment later he pulls another pair from his pocket. Smaller. Light brown leather. "Here." He tosses them to her. "You'll need these."
"For what? " she argues even as she yanks them on all too willingly. "Why are you being so cryptic? It's two in the—"
"Dates don't have to be in public." Without waiting to see the stunned look on her face, he turns on his heel, starting off down the dark path towards the Quidditch Pitch. "And we're going flying."
He doesn't hear the end of it.
Not for the entire kilometer walk to the Pitch, making no response save the occasional groan as she babbles incessantly about her fear of heights. The dangers of flying. The top ten most devastating Quidditch injuries she's read about in various texts.
She impresses upon him the absolute lunacy of this idea. The indisputable, unchangeable fact that she will not, under any circumstances, be mounting a broom. And yet, all the while — for reasons she can't quite fathom — she follows him. Lets him lead the way into the Players' Entrance, through the labyrinth of corridors beneath the stands, and then straight out onto the freshly trimmed field.
He only turns to face her when they reach the center of the Pitch.
"—to mention the numerous broom models that have been outlawed for intentionally tossing their riders into oblivion—"
"Just shut up, Granger. For fuck's sake."
Her mouth closes around a muffled sound of indignation and she crosses her arms over her chest — because he'd simply have to have the most romantic notions in the world poised on his tongue right now to sell her on this.
He's off to a rough start.
"First of all, you can learn absolutely nothing about Quidditch from books. All your little statistics are completely meaningless once you're in the air."
She raises her eyebrows, opening her mouth to list another one she finds particularly noteworthy — only to get cut off.
"Second — though you might not have noticed, thanks to Potter and all his obscene, broom-twirling theatrics — I am an incredibly skilled flyer." Tearing his wand from his pocket, he gives it a flick and casts a quick Summoning Charm under his breath before continuing. "I've been flying since I could walk, and while — yes, injuries happen — I would pay for that feeling of fucking incredible, weightless invincibility with a few broken arms any day."
She blinks, suddenly forgetting the other statistic she had primed and ready to go.
"And third—" He pockets his wand and holds his right arm straight out to his side, palm open like he's reaching for someone hand. "You said you wanted to know me. And I don't think you'll ever truly know me until you know what I feel when I fly. If you knew me, you'd know that nothing compares to the rush I get when the world falls out from under me and everything goes out of focus. You'd know that I don't smile a lot, but I smile up there, because it feels like the one place I have complete control. I think you should feel that firsthand, and then we might understand each other better." He cocks his head slightly, clearly listening for something even as he keeps on. "Because I think you're right. You don't know me. If you did, you'd know that when you fly with me, I will never — not once, not ever—"
In a dizzying flash, a broom whips through the space between them, twisting to circle him once before its sleek, black handle flies directly into the grip of his open hand.
"—let you fall."
Her breath catches.
And in the end, she thinks she needs to reassess what she considers to be the most romantic notions in the world.
Because within five minutes, her arms are belted around his waist and she's half a thousand feet in the air.
Half a thousand feet, and she can't even close her eyes. Can't remember the fear brought on by memories of Thestrals and First Year flying lessons. Can't remember what it was like to look down and think only of death.
Through the eyes of the bond — through him — she looks down and sees life. Feels the flush in her cheeks from the thrush of wind as he tilts them into a nosedive that might've once paralyzed her with terror. Feels the delight flaring up inside of him as they gain speed and hears the breathless, exhilarated laugh bubble out of her own throat as he guides them through corkscrews and triple-loops.
She can feel the smile on his face, just like he said — even when she can't see past his tall shoulder.
And she's stunned by the realization that she's wasted so much of her life on the ground.
In the broad view of society, sleeping together on the first date is usually unwise. It's too soon. Too rushed. Too vulnerable.
She might've agreed with such sentiments, maybe a year ago.
But as he moves inside of her, each thrust met with a sharp, trembling gasp, she's thinking they're worthy of an exception. Even if it wasn't a date in the traditional sense. Even if it is too vulnerable to let him fuck her right there on the rough grass of the Pitch, concealed by nothing but the night's sure darkness.
His hands still smell like the leather gloves he tossed away, heady and intoxicating as he holds her jaw steady for a kiss. And they're half-clothed and wholly desperate, as though both of them know exactly how long it's been since the last time. How long it might be until the next. When everything aligns in just the right way, like it did tonight.
He is so much more sure of himself without a voice inside his head. So much bolder in his grip, pinning her wrist to the grass. In the beautiful brutality of each slam of his hips.
His senses glow when her fingernails dig into the thin flesh at the nape of his neck. When she drags them down, carving marks and drawing blood. Through the feedback loop of the bond, she feels pleasure — not pain. The mark of a true masochist.
And she's too focused on the soft, wounded cries he chokes out against her throat — too tangled up in the rapturous storm building in the pit of her stomach — to remember to be frightened of what's to come.
But when they crash over the edge in tandem, and that bright, familiar light explodes around them, it's not to punishment.
The swells of orgasm are delicate, echoing off one another only once or twice before gently receding like a tide. Malfoy sinks heavy and exhausted over her, panting — still thrumming with the aftershocks. That warmth rings through her too, but her thoughts are elsewhere.
She knows what she heard. Moments ago — just seconds before he gave in to it. And they've been bonded long enough that she can tell the difference between the stranger's voice and his.
It was his voice. She's sure of it. Which makes very little sense.
Because as the ecstasy consumed him, the word he gasped out was, "Paramour..."
The month's full moon is merciful.
Lupin suggests a Sleeping Draught for Malfoy. And though not effective enough to knock him out, when combined with the Wolfsbane, it forces the tension from his muscles and the anxiousness from his mind.
She plays him music of his taste from the Room of Requirement — Vivaldi and Dvořák and Debussy — all the while talking his ear off so he can't be allowed to think about the monster living beneath his skin. The one that could wake at any moment.
In the end, he falls asleep just before sunrise and never transforms, and for the rest of the month it seems they're allowed to count their blessings.
Twice more, he takes her for midnight flights — and twice more, she's fucked senseless in the grass, staring bleary-eyed up at the stars above and wondering how they managed to find some semblance of ease.
Even her talks with Lupin become more manageable, because Malfoy teaches her how to lie. Teaches her what to say and how to say it, so it doesn't appear that she's hiding things. A trade he's far better at than she is.
For once, she rests easy.
And then May arrives — unannounced and furious.
On the first Thursday of the month, she meets Malfoy behind the statue of the One-Eyed Witch.
It's meant to be a quick feeding. Sustenance before a long day of classes. And only recently has he begun taking blood for himself again, so she really can't fault him for his enthusiasm. His vigor.
Though it's something of a mess.
The shallow incision along the slope of her throat proves unruly, blood leaking onto his hands and staining their clothes as he sucks at the wound. She has to muffle her gasp against his shoulder when his teeth clamp down, quiet moan vibrating across her skin.
Her mind goes fuzzy — muscles limp. She listens to his thoughts ricochet, mostly only saying one thing.
—fuck—
—missed this—
—the taste of her—
—nothing—
—nothing compares—
—nothing—
A slow smile spreads across her face as she rests her chin on his shoulder, gaze unfocused and glassy. She stares past the looming shadow of the witch's statue to the far wall, for a while not making sense of the eyes staring back at her.
But then her brows furrow, and moment by dreadful moment, she grows more lucid. Realizes what she's looking at.
Harry is standing there, just a few feet away. Staring at them slack-jawed, eyes narrowed — inexplicably holding the Marauder's Map.
Her next gasp isn't one of pleasure, and Malfoy senses it, mouth parting painfully from her flesh so he can straighten up and look at her.
"What is it?"
She can't respond. Can't even breathe.
But Malfoy must see the angle of her horrified gaze, because he turns to look behind him.
Turns and meets Harry's eyes with the damning crimson of her blood dripping from his chin.