PART II

Sunday, January 3, 1999

Draco's tea was cold.

He stared at his cup, the china almost translucent in the weak sunlight filtering through the large window to his left. A thin skin of congealed milk floated on the liquid's surface. He poked at it with a spoon, almost surprised.

How long had he been sitting here?

Wasn't there somewhere he should be?

His eyes went to the grandfather clock in the corner. Only just gone eleven. Hours before he needed to leave for school. He spread his hands on the breakfast table's dark surface and stared down at them.

Not like he was in a rush to go.

Home was not exactly pleasant, but at least it lacked unpleasant surprises. At least here he only saw her in his mind. Instead of around every bloody corner, in the library, in the common room, at meals, in class.

Coming out of Theo's room, a private smile on her lips.

Draco pushed back from the table and got up, stalking to the window and looking out, willing his thoughts to other channels. Something else. Anything else. Flying. It was relatively clear out. He could go flying before he left.

He focused on the grounds below him, manicured paths and sweeping lawns whitened by a crust of frost. The cold would be good. A distraction. And he'd kill some hours.

Kill.

Funny, that was exactly what he'd wanted to do to Theo. Especially on New Year's Eve.

If Lucius hadn't taken their wands...

Draco closed his eyes and made his breath slow down. Unbidden, an image of her rose up, like it did almost every time he closed his eyes. In that jewel box of a shop, standing over him in that dress—that fucking, fucking dress—one booted foot on either side of his legs, face red and fists clenched like she was holding them back. Her hair. Her skin. Her scent. Just like in San Cipriano when they'd first—God, he'd wanted to reach up and pull her down, get his fingers into that mass of curls and his tongue into her mouth. He'd even made a motion toward her before the spell had yanked him back.

Like a dog on a fucking leash.

He snorted. Wondered if Theo knew that her cheeks still heated when she saw him.

But then he sagged. Tapped his forehead to the glass.

What did it bloody matter anyway?

He was trapped. With no way out.

And better Theo than some other cunt. At least he knew Theo cared for her. Although on New Year… The way he'd looked at Daphne when he thought no one else was.

Draco tapped his head against the glass again. Gently, and then not so gently.

It was all his fault.

"Fuck my bloody life," he muttered.

"Does Master Draco desire something?" An elfin voice from behind him.

He almost laughed. Yes, Master Draco desires something very much.

Not that he could have it. Not that he ever would again.

"No. Thank you." He spoke to the glass before turning and plunging blindly for the door.

⁂

"You'll apparate to the village and then walk? Really, Draco?" Narcissa reached up to straighten his tie and Draco let her, fighting down the childish urge to squirm away.

"Yes, mother."

"It would be nothing to run you down to the train."

He grunted a negative. He wasn't about to spend six bloody hours trapped with a bunch of children.

"But your bags?"

"I didn't bring much home." He gestured to a black leather valise, sitting ready next to his bedroom door.

"Of course, these muggle clothes pack down to nothing, don't they?" Narcissa's fingers rested so briefly on his cheek, he may have imagined them. He didn't imagine the edge of disapproval in her voice, though.

"I like them." He shrugged and her lips thinned.

"I don't like these dark circles." Her fingers floated toward his face again.

He just raised his brows at her.

Her face twisted. "This damned spell," she hissed. "If only there were a way. If she would just—"

"I can't ask that of her," Draco said. "I won't. Even if we're both miserable." An image of Astoria flashed through his mind, delicate and drawn at the New Year's Eve ball, her eyes following Pansy almost hungrily.

Narcissa made a noise and looked away. Draco watched her, surprised at her show of emotion, seeing the wheels turning behind her slight frown.

"Even for a muggleborn, mother?" The words slipped from between his lips so quietly they were almost a whisper. He still couldn't believe that she knew, let alone might support—

"For a person of your choice, yes." Narcissa blinked. "The world is changing, Draco. Has changed." She stepped back and her eyes swept over him. "And we've been through too much for you to live a joyless life. I won't have that for you. As I said, I'd see you happy."

"But he'll never. The money." Draco felt a familiar bleakness settle over him, blotting out any traces of hope his mother's words may have briefly introduced.

She looked away again, coldness knife-sharp in her stiff spine. "If only I could do it myself—but we'll see." Ice-blue eyes narrowed. "I'm not promising anything, but we'll see."

Draco nodded, afraid that if he spoke, he'd weep. She reached up one more time to smooth his collar. "My son," she whispered and astoundingly, he thought she might weep too.

But then she turned toward the door, perfectly composed. "You'll see him before you go?"

"He's asked me to. I'm just about to go down." Draco reached for his pocket watch, hanging heavily beneath his robes. Three o'clock. "I'd like to be at school no later than four."

Narcissa nodded once. "Be careful what you say, Draco."

"I always am."

⁂

Draco put his hand up to knock on the heavily worked door of his father's study, then dropped it again. He took a deep breath and looked at the ceiling, summoning a trickle of occlumency to steal across his mind. Nothing too obvious. Just enough to bury the sharper edges of his emotions. If Lucius sensed any urgency of feeling or the barrier, things would not go well. And while Draco didn't, couldn't, allow himself to hope, Narcissa's words had introduced… something. A curiosity maybe?

Luckily, living with Voldemort had made Draco quite good at hiding things like hope or curiosity.

He breathed out, slowly. And when he felt he was balanced, empty, he knocked on the door.

"Enter."

Draco pushed through to see Lucius at his desk, applying quill to paper. He watched his father's fair head and steady hand for a good 90 seconds before Lucius made an impatient gesture.

"Sit down, Draco."

Draco walked forward and sat, letting the calm of his blocking spell settle over him.

Lucius wrote for another 90 seconds before looking up. When he did his eyes were cold and probing. "You're leaving soon?" he finally said, sheathing his quill in the fine silver stand on his blotter.

"Yes. I'm apparating to Hogsmeade as soon as we're finished here." Draco was pleased at how steady his voice was. Lucius just looked at him for several beats until Draco spoke again. "You did want to see me?"

"Yes." Lucius leaned back in his chair and folded his hands. "I'd like to ask you to try and not embarrass yourself any further at school this term." His words were soft, but laced with anger.

Draco suppressed any reaction. "Embarrass myself, father?"

"Oh come off it with that pale imitation of your mother, Draco. I saw you on New Year's Eve with the Nott boy. I heard you."

"I didn't realise you'd hung around." Draco couldn't prevent the curl of his lip.

"You didn't realise anything, you were so… lost to decency and decorum. The both of you. Disgusting display," Lucius spat. "If his father were alive..."

Draco felt the very strange urge to defend Theo rise up in his chest. He ground his teeth instead.

"Is there a point to any of this?" he asked.

Lucius straightened, his eyes narrowing to silver slits. "The point, Draco. Is that you are to put any thoughts of that little mudblood piece out of your mind. For good."

Draco shot up in his chair, hand convulsing toward his wand. Then he stopped. Remembered. Show nothing, reveal nothing. "Be careful what you say, Draco." Or do. Fuck.

Lucius eyebrows went slowly up. "Well, that's all the confirmation I needed," he drawled. He held up his hand and examined his manicured fingernails. "I had been hoping it was purely physical. Theodore's reputation, you know. And even I admit muggles can be… compelling to the baser instincts on occasion. She must be quite something for the both of you to—" Lucius gave a little shake of his head. "But that's neither here nor there."

Draco felt the blood work up his neck and over his jaw, but could do nothing to prevent it.

Lucius watched him, the faux-lightness disappearing from his manner. "So as you can see, if you came here with your pathetic calming spells to make a request about your engagement, I shall not be granting it. I may have done what I had to do to make sure this family survived the war, but I'll be damned if I see you introduce a muggle into my line. Your mother's line. No matter what she may think about the matter." He frowned. "The Greengrasses are grasping social climbers, and the younger girl is defective without the treatment—surely Riddle's final little joke on me—but her blood is pure. And I'd see you wed to a hundred dying pureblood girls before I see you live your life as a bloody muggle. Or sire half-breed children that would bear the Malfoy name." Lucius's face set with fury and he shuddered.

Draco's calm and his occlumency spell had gone up in smoke during this recitation. Amazing that his father could get to him more effectively than Lord bloody Voldemort.

"So you'd refuse to keep paying for treatment if Astoria released me?" He sat forward, his shoulders painfully tight, a lump in his throat. "You'd sentence her to death or both of us to a life of misery?"

"Oh, stop being so dramatic, Draco. The girl is attractive enough. Pleasant. Clever. You could do much worse."

"But I'm in love with someone else!"

"You're in love with an idea." Lucius pitched forward, slapping his hands on his desk. "Put into your head during that ridiculous summer. I should never have agreed to it." He sniffed and picked up his quill again. "This betrothal may have been forced on us, and she would not be my first choice, but she's far superior to your choice."

Draco felt his curiosity, his hope, drain out of him a final time. There was nothing more to say. Or do. He stood shakily, and turned toward the door.

"I've told Cyrus Greengrass this as well." Lucius's quill had started scratching again. "If his daughter releases you, my financial support stops."

Draco paused, his back to his father, and nodded.

"And I'll be reiterating this to your mother," Lucius continued. His voice held more than a little bitterness and Draco allowed himself a small prickle of satisfaction at this. "So the two of you can stop any little plots you have afoot. She certainly can't afford it on her own," he muttered.

Draco started walking again, made it to the door.

"The wedding will proceed this summer as planned," Lucius said as Draco grasped the handle. "Shut it behind you when you go."

⁂

Draco's thoughts were more grim than they'd been since the start of the term as he plodded up the path from Hogsmeade to the castle. He knew now that he had been allowing himself to hope. Just a tendril born from some mix of his mother's knowing, the encounter with Hermione at the shop, the confrontation with Theo...

He should have known Lucius would trample it to dust.

Draco looked down, navigating a root that snaked across the dirt below his boots. His breath blew in white clouds around him and the sky was darkening quickly. A red seam of sun just tinged the horizon, but otherwise the sky was steel gray.

Red, black, gray.

Colours of violence, emptiness, despair. Perfect for his mood. Perfect description of his life, really.

He snorted as he rounded a corner and beheld Hogwarts Castle, looming like a great hulking beast in the mist. Revulsion lurched in his stomach at the thought of returning, of being here for another six months. He looked up and his eyes ran over the sharp towers and soaring arches that used to represent comfort and home.

One thing was clear, this was a home no longer. Instead it was something to be endured; a damp, cold pit of loneliness and pain.

Bad choices and worse memories.

He kicked at a stone as he crossed the bridge toward the castle entrance.

Lucius, bastard that he was, had been right. Draco was in love with Hermione—yes gods, yes—but he was also in love with what they'd had, their life during that perfect summer. An idea of warmth and light and happiness. Of a fast ride over a long road, a glass of wine at a shady table, her eyes—dancing—as they met his.

Everything they'd had. So impossibly far away now.

Replaced by this damp fucking pile and the sun setting at four o'clock.

Draco yanked open the castle door and strode through the entrance hall, head down and robes billowing behind him. He couldn't bloody wait to take them off and put his jeans back on.

At least he could have that if he couldn't have anything else. Years of annoying Lucius by showing up to the Manor in muggle clothes? So be it if that was all he could do.

He felt a familiar tension tighten his shoulders as he walked toward the Divination Tower. Would he see her? Would she see him? Would she be with Theo, demonstrating their…pleasure…at being reunited?

Draco worked his jaw as dark things darted behind his eyes.

He just needed to get to his room and dump this bag, change out of his robes, maybe escape to the eighth floor. Where he wouldn't have to see anyone. Except for Astoria, of course. She'd find him there.

His body practically sang at the thought of her, warmth prickling along his skin and the tug of something akin to desire darting through his veins.

Fucking spell.

He made a disgusted noise as he ducked into the eighth-year common room, avoiding the eye of everyone who happened to be there. MacMillan, Bones and that fucking cunt, Corner. No Hermione. No Theo.

Draco ignored them all. Let them hate him. He didn't care.

He took the stairs to the boys' corridor two at a time, keeping his head down as he passed open doors and the sound of chatter and laughter, keeping his eyes off Theo's room as he reached for his wand and muttered an unlocking charm.

He was just about to pull the handle when a sound came from behind him.

Not that sound, thank gods.

But music? Movement? The scrape of a chair on a wooden floor?

Someone was in Theo's room.

Draco's eyes closed as being here and all it entailed became painfully, immediately real to him—like a swift punch to the gut.

Were they fucking in there?

That little sigh she made, the hitch in her throat just before she came. Had Theo seen that? Covered it with his lips and tasted it? Had he tasted all of her? Did she smile at him afterward—in that crooked way, so that her eyes glowed and her mouth quirked? Did she breathe little words and poems into his skin? Did she love him?

Something like panic rose in Draco and he snatched at the doorknob, wrenching his door open, then slamming it shut behind him. He collapsed against the wood and mumbled a muffling charm over and over into the dark stillness of his room. Until he could hear nothing but his own harsh breaths.

How was he going to do this again?

Be here?

He needed to find that cold well of resolve he'd tapped into earlier in the year. Build his walls back up. He'd gotten so good at being around her. He'd almost been able to see how he'd get through the rest of his life. Marry Astoria. Endure his stilted existence and never see her again.

But then bloody Theo had happened.

Draco stepped away from the door and dropped onto his bed. He put his head in his hands and tried to breathe normally. He saw Theo's livid face at New Year. Heard his words.

"It's none of your fucking business, Draco. You have no right to speak for her. No right to even think about her!"

Theo had been furious. Fists balled and eyes snapping. More angry than Draco had ever seen him. He loves her. The thought had crashed through Draco's mind then as it did again now.

He shook his head slowly from side to side. Of course he did. Who wouldn't?

Eventually he'd understood. Through whispered shouts and almost shoves, had seen that Theo didn't mean to hurt her, or betray her. He wasn't at the ball with Daphne. Hermione knew where he was. Knew all about it.

Draco had still wanted to hit him, though. Smash a fist into that handsome face. Still wanted to, in fact.

He flexed a hand.

And Theo had known it because he'd wanted to hit Draco too. Draco could see it in the set of his jaw and his rigid posture.

But Theo had been the one to step back, eyes going to the scene inside—to Daphne peering nervously across the room to the terrace Lucius had pushed them onto just before he'd taken their wands.

"What are you doing, Theo?" Draco had hissed, watching him and still not trusting him, thinking of San Cipriano. The way Theo had been there. And before.

"Nothing!" But Theo had looked anguished. "It's none of your fucking business anyway. You have no idea what's between us. You don't know anything about her now. Or me. You have no right." The fight had seemed to go out of him and he'd turned away. "You know, fuck this," he'd said before starting to go inside. "And fuck you."

Draco tipped his head back and took a deep breath. Stared at his dark gray ceiling. He had no right, it was true. His chest heaved again, even as he tried to will himself calm, taking a deep slow breath. But the breath stopped short. Because it had brought a wisp of something with it. Of her. A visceral feeling of her. Being with her. Being with her. Moving inside of her on waves of pleasure more intense than he'd ever known.

What was it? What had triggered it. He sniffed the air and realised…it was her scent. That fucking perfume.

He moved quickly to the wardrobe and flung it open, the wisp of fragrance only intensifying as he pushed to the back and yanked at the drawer.

Her scarf was still there, yes, but neatly folded.

⁂

Draco tried to calm his whirring mind as he strode quickly down toward the common room. Had he folded the scarf last time he took it out? He didn't remember doing it. He usually just stuffed it back in the drawer, disgusted with himself for prolonging his torment. He really should burn it. One quick Incendio and the acuteness of the memories would be gone.

But he knew he never would.

He shook his head—he must have folded it. There was no other explanation. Probably in a moment of abstraction, lost in the past.

He took the last step onto the main floor, dreading the next few minutes. He hated having to come into the common room and cafe because it was so exposed. She might be lying with bloody Theo on a sofa, or laughing with her head next to his at one of the tables or fucking kissing him in front of the window. Draco shuddered, and his stomach turned over, but he could tell from the slight headache behind his eyes that he needed to eat. He'd just go quickly and grab something, take it to his room and armor himself in muffling charms in case she and Theo decided to have a reunion across the hall tonight.

He shuddered again as he reached the cafe and saw laden platters, smelled food. Not that he cared what it was. He barely tasted anything these days. Throwing a few things on a plate (did everything here have to be heavy and brown?) he wheeled around quickly and made for the stairs.

He also made a tactical error.

He looked up.

And there she was.

Chatting with the Patil twin. Hands moving, eyes bright.

Just standing there not ten feet away.

So fucking beautiful.

Draco felt his shoulders hunch forward as his whole soul seemed to reach toward her. Strain toward her. His breath as it left his lips seemed like it drifted toward her too, into an orbit that she pulled him into again and again.

He watched dumbly for a moment.

Her hair was up and he could see the dark nape of her neck. That shadowy spot beneath her ear that he'd loved to kiss. She was wearing something nondescript (jeans, a top—no bloody jumper dress today) but the lines of her body were lithe, lovely, and so dear to him. His eyes tracked the delicacy of her wrist as she gestured, the curve of her waist as she put a hand to hip. And then her smile, like a quick flash of something sweet bursting on his tongue.

Although—it didn't quite reach her eyes, did it?

He reined in the cloud of emotion that had enveloped him and focused, noticing that Hermione looked strained. Not as strained as she'd been at the beginning of the year and certainly not as gaunt and pale as she'd looked after he'd… cut her loose. But also not as glowing and happy she'd looked of late. Since she'd gotten together with Theo. Draco's fist clenched so hard it was painful, but he forced his fingers apart, then forced the red haze that was threatening to recede.

There was a tightness in her posture and a nervousness to her gestures. He could see that she was clicking her back teeth together. A nervous tic he'd noticed before—especially in the days right before they'd left San Cipriano. He also saw a finger tapping against her thigh, even as she nodded at something the Patil girl was saying.

Immediately, Draco's mind went back to Theo on New Year—with Daphne, but not with her—and he wondered again. Wondered what Theo was up to and what it meant for Hermione. If Theo had been telling the truth. His hand tightened on the white ceramic of his dinner plate as he recalled Theo's anguished face. The magnitude of his emotion.

Draco recognised self-loathing when he saw it.

Something was going on.

The wave of the anger Draco had felt that night threatened to crash over him again. Even if Theo wasn't fucking around—and he reluctantly believed him—Theo could still be lying to himself.

He could still hurt her.

Was she in pain?

Draco should know what that looked like. He'd seen it often enough. Caused it often enough. His throat constricted and he thought he might crack the plate in his hand. He started and began walking. Maybe he'd make it past without her noticing him.

But that wasn't to be.

Because at that moment, Patil gave a little wave and walked away and Hermione turned toward the kitchen, and right toward Draco.

Their eyes met—he couldn't bloody help it—and he saw hers widen. She froze for the barest moment as her mouth dropped open and she looked like she would speak. She blinked, stepped toward him, and an expression flashed over her face. An ache, he thought, had thought, on the many occasions he'd seen it before.

Draco felt a familiar compulsion to go to her, touch her, fix everything that was wrong…followed by a physical repulsion that had him ducking his head and starting to move out of the room almost outside of his own control.

Mind fuckery of the highest order. Cunting spell.

He thought he heard Hermione's angry exhale as he brushed past her, but couldn't be sure. He was too busy leaving. Going anywhere but here.

And he didn't look back as he went.

⁂

Draco's steps took him up past the boys' floor and then the girls'. He'd meant to go to back to his bedroom, but he clearly needed deeper shelter. He kept climbing, head down, until he'd walked up eight floors to the very top of the Divination Tower. Floating his dinner plate, he waved his wand at a circular shape in the ceiling, which dropped open and emitted a silver ladder. Draco ascended it and then pulled it up behind him with another flick of his wand. The door shut tightly and he muttered soft Lumoses as he moved about a large room, lighting several lamps scattered about in shadowy corners.

The old Divination classroom had been deserted since Trelawney had left Hogwarts and the new Divination professor had declared her space, "steeped in energy of murky and questionable intent." A tale that Astoria, who was taking the new professor's class, had relayed to Draco not long after his arrival. That and his feelings in the days after he'd told Hermione he didn't want her, didn't love her, had brought him here for the first time. Looking for shelter, or more accurately, a place to be wounded and hide.

"Told" Hermione.

He snorted—not like he could actually bloody say anything to her. More like feign indifference in the face of her words, her feelings. He shuddered and flung himself down in an overstuffed chair, reaching almost automatically for the door of the cupboard that stood next to it. Opening it, he withdrew a glass and a bottle of Ogden's, then poured a healthy measure. He took a large gulp, grimacing at the taste.

Bloody wizarding whiskey. Tasted like the petrol he'd used to put in his bike.

Yet another thing to envy Theo.

Draco pictured him walking down the boys' corridor, looking windblown, two bottles of fine muggle single malt tucked under his arm. Clearly back from one of the little jaunts he and Hermione would take in that car he had hidden somewhere.

Fuck.

Draco took another large swallow, a sharp and familiar twist of jealousy roiling his guts as he felt the alcohol burn down his throat. He also pitched forward and gathered his dinner plate, forcing a few bites into his mouth, although he tasted nothing. But it wouldn't do to drink on such an empty stomach—he'd had enough nights like that in this room and they never led to anything good. At best at splitting headache and at worst… He shook his head as if to chase away memories, then got up and went to the fireplace, floating wood into the grate and flicking it to life.

He turned and surveyed the room, it's lofty proportions and sweeping views. It had been his one refuge since he'd embarked on the trip through hell that was his eighth year of school, and effecting its transformation from the overstuffed horror he remembered from sixth year had been a good distraction. He had started slowly, but ramped up efforts the last couple of months as he'd spent more and more time here, unable to endure the idea of what might be going on in the bedroom just across the hall from his.

He took another drink of his whiskey as his eyes ran over the space. Gone was the clutter of Trelawney's era. Instead the room was airy, comfortable. Going roughly for the style of the San Cipriano flat, Draco hadn't fought the room's gothic touches, although he had vanished the chintz curtains and transfigured the surfeit of poufs into a long, low sofa. The overlarge chairs he'd left, but had changed the florid floral patterns into solid hues. He used Trelawney's massive old desk for his own schoolwork and her bookshelves for actual books, rather than mildewy furbelows, all of which he'd cleared out and disposed of. His music player from San Cipriano also stood there, along with a small wine rack.

Draco went and sat in the desk now, staring morosely at the fire that had caught and was burning merrily in the stone hearth. A black leather book still sat on the blotter where he'd left it before the holiday. His fingers went absently to the tooled cover and he riffled through pages marked with his own handwriting— some densely covered and some with just a few scribbled lines. He shoved it away; he didn't want to read that now. He was trying to escape his pain, not wallow in it.

But then his eyes went back to the wine, pilfered from Lucius's cellar, and to the battered cassette player, the only thing in this room that was really Draco's.

Nothing else belonged to him. Not really. Not even his own life.

And that was the rub. The crux of it all.

Again Draco felt a sharp stab of jealousy toward Theo, although not for the usual reason. But because Theo was free. Independent. And not just to go driving off into the muggle countryside, but to live as he chose, with whom he chose.

Draco put his head in his hands. Of course he didn't quite wish his father dead, even after scenes like today's. And he certainly didn't wish Astoria's.

But what he wouldn't do to be his own man.

After a while he sighed and forced himself to look up, and then get up. He stalked to the area in front of the fireplace, which was largely clear but for a large patterned rug, then turned.

Astoria.

His eye caught on her little space, set out in one of the brighter corners of the room, next to the south-facing windows.

An elegant escritoire and chair. A standing lamp. Some of her own schoolbooks neatly stacked on a small table next to it. A thick cream-coloured cardigan draped over the back of the chair. He could almost see her there, back straight and quill poised, the cardigan hanging from her slim shoulders.

Before he realised he was doing it, he'd walked over and lifted the soft garment from the chair, holding it to his face. A familiar feeling of steady warmth flooded his senses upon inhaling a hint of feminine sweat and sweet perfume. "Lily of the Valley," she'd told him. "Common, I know, but I like it." He now had a bloody bottle of it on his bedside table at the manor. And although the warmth was very different from the heat he felt when he'd buried his face similarly in Hermione's scarf earlier, it was no less compelling.

Not that he wanted it. Or had any control over it.

But, as he had reminded himself countless times, this was his life now. He slung the cardigan roughly back on the chair and walked to the window, looking sightlessly out at the blackness. And his life would march forward. Exams in May, wedding in June and then… a bleak expanse that he couldn't quite contemplate just yet, although he hoped Astoria would agree to live abroad for a time. Perhaps Paris? At least then he'd be near Blaise.

He trod back over to the armchair and poured more whiskey. The near future brought equally painful contemplation as well. The special torture of Unity class would begin soon. And who could forget that he and Hermione had been commanded by McGonagall to bloody meet and form a lesson plan? Draco tipped his head back and laughed mirthlessly at the ceiling. He was going to find it difficult to sit across a table from her, let alone talk to her at length.

Although, he frowned, the spell did seem to ease up if they kept to mundane things. It was just when he tried to say what really mattered that his vocal cords seized and practically strangled him. And with her, he was nearly always trying to say things that really mattered.

His intent. That seemed to be the key.

He blew out a long noisy sigh and contemplated a branching crack threading across the stone above him.

"That bad, is it?" A low, musical voice came from near the trapdoor and Draco started up to see the dark curtain of Astoria's hair as she climbed through the floor. He hadn't even heard the ladder slide down.

He watched her as she stood and brushed non-existent creases from her perfectly fitted wool skirt, then magicked the door shut behind her with a deft flick of her wrist. Her dark glance flashed to Draco and away, but he kept looking at her, thinking of Lucius's words from earlier. He supposed she was objectively beautiful. Slight and graceful with those wide, expressive eyes and that long fall of silken hair. A mobile mouth that could quirk quickly between amusement and temper. Pale skin that flushed prettily when her feelings—or other things—were aroused.

She was intelligent too. Quick, witty, a little cutting at times.

Draco supposed in another life he'd be quite pleased with her. Or at least, not displeased. As Lucius had said, it could be worse. And they probably could have rubbed along quite amicably, liked each other enough to have an uneventful marriage, an heir or two, a life together—if he'd not been consumed with love for someone else, of course. If his eyes hadn't been opened to how things could be different.

"Chilly up here," she murmured, going to her chair and donning the cardigan Draco had been so recently pawing.

"Fire's only been on for a few minutes. Cast a warming if you'd like," he said carelessly, continuing to lounge in his chair, but still watching her as she opened a desk drawer, peered at a book in the stack. The pull to go to her, touch her, after the few days' absence was strong, but he resisted it.

"Your journey was fine?" she asked, still looking down, now flipping through the book. Draco sensed the same mix of attraction and reluctance emanating from her. It was why she'd come up here, he supposed. But she obstinately remained on her side of the room.

"Yes. And yours?" Draco straightened. He wouldn't be able to resist the urge for much longer.

"Fine." A soft sigh and he could sense her giving in too.

"Drink?" he asked. "Whiskey? Wine?"

She gave him a look.

"I've only had one," he said. "And a half." He held up his glass a bit ruefully.

"All right," she said after a long pause. "I could use it today. Wine, though." She drifted over and he rose to select a bottle from the rack, removing the cork with a muttered charm. She met his eyes as she took a glass from him and he saw that telltale flush in her face.

That night had been a mistake—one they both knew they could easily repeat. That night. The night he'd heard the moan from Theo's room.

Draco's mind dredged up the memory reluctantly, a cold clench of dread rising in his throat as the well-worn details ran through his mind. He'd been in his bedroom reading a muggle novel Hermione had given him in San Cipriano—but he'd stopped reading, had let himself drift into a daydream of sunshine and lightly freckled skin and laughing gold-brown eyes until his room had gone dark around him. He'd been almost on the edge of an actual dream when he'd heard it. That telltale sound of pleasure and desire. It was muffled by heavy walls and quickly suppressed by what could only be a silencing charm, but he'd known what it was (who it was) in an instant.

He hadn't even thought, he'd slammed so quickly out of his bedroom and up to the tower. And he'd had two glasses of Ogdens down his throat in the first ten minutes. And then another two more. And then Astoria had arrived, obviously upset (he hadn't asked why, but Pansy had looked pale and sullen that day, so he could guess) and asked for her own glass.

To that point it hadn't been physical between them, other than a kiss or two—experiments to see where letting the spell have its way would take them. But kissing hadn't made them feel any better than touching, so they'd largely kept it to that. It felt less involuntary somehow.

But that night he had put on some music. Something loud. And they'd danced. She'd kicked off her shoes and whirled. Whiskey had splashed from his glass and he'd actually laughed. For the first time in so long.

He'd glimpsed what their life could be like if they could just forget.

And then he put on something soft, and before he knew it, he'd pulled her close, closer, and had kissed her again. And she'd kissed him back. Differently than before. Deep, devouring kisses that had them down on the rug in front of the fire, her willowy limbs exposed, his lips everywhere, her hands in his hair. The spell flowing between them like heady wine, egging them on with whispers across skin and through veins.

Only the crack of a log in the fire and a welling sob from her throat had stopped them.

"What are we doing?" she'd whispered, cradling his head on her chest as tears had leaked from his eyes too.

"I don't know," he'd said. "I don't know."

So since then, no drinking together. At least not excessively. He didn't know quite what they were trying to prevent or control, but it felt important to have some modicum of it. Until it became a moot point, at least.

He took his whiskey to the couch and stretched out, looked inquiringly up at where she was hovering, slightly out of reach.

Finally she sighed and flopped down, a little abruptly, and settled against his chest, stretched her legs against his until they were entwined. He slid his arm around her waist as she tucked her head under his chin.

Almost immediately, a warm humming feeling unfurled pleasantly through his body. A sense of well-being descended upon his brain and he felt his shoulders relax for the first time in days. She relaxed too and with a sound of contentment, burrowed closer to him. She turned her head to the side and inhaled at his neck even as he took a deep breath of the scent drifting from her hair.

"Bloody spell," she muttered after a moment, stroking a finger lightly over the back of his hand.

He snorted softly and lifted his drink from the arm of the sofa. She sipped her wine and they both stared at the crackling fire.

"You're quiet," she finally said.

"You know why."

"I don't want to be back here either."

"I know."

"Have you seen her?" She twisted up to look at him and he caught a flash of sympathy in her eyes.

He closed his and nodded.

"You could have told me, you know." Her finger was making patterns now, tiny circles and swoops moving up over his wrist. "Not that I hadn't figured it out. Some of it."

"Was I that obvious?"

"No, but I can read you. And she was. On occasion."

Her voice held a sharpness and he tilted his head toward her. "Were you jealous?"

Her foot tapped against his. "Not precisely. But I was aware of an… irritation."

"How strange. I don't feel that—with Pansy." Draco remembered when he'd first found out about them, how it had given him hope that Astoria might… But he'd understood less then.

"Not quite the same threat, I suppose."

"Or maybe it's the timing thing." Draco recalled one of the many theories they'd developed about the spell. "Before versus after."

"Yes." Her reply was terse.

"So it might get worse for you and Pansy after we're…"

"Mmm." She cut him off then picked up his hand, slipping her fingers through his. "Do you love her?"

"Do you love her?"

She snorted. "I asked first."

"Yes." He drank again. "Sick with it, in fact."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"But I'm particularly sorry about Theo and all that." Her fingers continued to twine through his. "I guess I didn't realise the extent. Until I saw you having a go at New Year." Draco grunted and Astoria twisted to look at him again. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to risk my life, Draco. Father says—"

"Yes, I know. And I'd never ask you to."

She settled back down. "I did some more research. Mother found out. She was furious."

"Anything of interest?"

"Nothing we don't already know. It has to be me."

She dropped his hand and he splayed it over her stomach. She twisted her face toward his neck again.

"So we'll both live unhappily ever after," he said. "Have you told Pansy yet?"

"No." Her voice was muffled.

"Does she still think you're going to break it off with me?"

"Maybe."

"Astoria."

"I know!" She whipped her face around and pushed at Draco's chest. "I just. Haven't, OK? And it's not like you've been particularly forthcoming! Hermione obviously knows nothing!"

Draco closed his eyes. "I couldn't. I can barely even speak to her. Besides, she wouldn't… that wouldn't have helped. I was trying to get her to give up on me."

"Well, I don't want to give up on Pansy. And maybe there's a chance we can still—after." She looked up at him. "You wouldn't care, would you?"

Draco propped up and looked sternly down at her. "She bloody would. And there's the timing, Astoria. Consider that you won't be able. If I try to speak to Hermione or reach toward her with anything other than the most innocuous intent, I'm physically repelled."

"But it's not like that for me! Maybe because Pansy isn't a factor when it comes to children…"

He sighed; they'd been over this. Repeatedly. "That's highly doubtful and you know it. Everything we've read has indicated it's much more likely that part of the spell will trigger for you after the marriage is performed. And you'll be even more strictly constrained than I am now. It's archaic magic, Astoria. Designed to ensure that I don't wriggle out of the engagement and that we have pureblood children together. So until you have an heir or several, it's going to have you in its clutches. And every threat to the union will be blocked—it's not like the magic has loopholes for same sex relationships, it's just sexist. I'm more likely to be able to… do what I want after we're married. Not that I'd ask it of… anyone." Draco leaned his head back on the arm of the couch.

"And irreversible once the marriage ceremony is complete." Astoria sounded numb, but then gave a sort of aching sob. "Oh gods, maybe I should just renounce. Tell my father and your father to fuck off. Take my chances and live what little life I have left on my terms." She sniffed. "Maybe Pans and I would get a couple of years of happiness." Her eyes flashed to Draco's again. "And you'd get Hermione."

He snorted. "Doubtful. After all I've done—and there's Theo now, you can't forget."

"I thought that was over." She frowned. "Wasn't that why you were angry when you saw him at New Year?"

"He said there's nothing between Daphne and him." Draco felt his jaw tighten almost painfully.

Astoria snorted.

"What?" Draco's attention sharpened. Had she seen something? Was Theo fucking around after all?

"Nothing, really." Astoria picked at a thread on her cardigan. "Theo and Daph have just belonged to each other since they could form feelings. And I know he did something awful, but she seems to have forgiven him. They were together a lot over break. And now that Michael is out of the way…" She shrugged. "I just wouldn't be surprised if the inevitable happens."

Draco's heart leapt even as it throbbed for Hermione. Could that have been the cause of her earlier tension? Could she see the writing on the wall?

Draco wanted to fucking hex himself.

He'd practically driven her to Theo, who was now going to cause her pain. Fuck. He passed a hand over his eyes. But maybe Astoria was wrong. Draco had seen Theo's face on New Year's eve.

Emotion written all over it. Love.

For Hermione.

He'd also bloody seen them together—happy, laughing, charmed by each other. Theo had told him way back in San Cipriano days how he felt about her. Feelings which had obviously never gone away, and had now grown.

Draco rolled his head from side to side.

"What?" Astoria had resumed stroking his forearm.

Draco wrenched his thoughts away from his own heartache. "You can't do it."

"Hmm?"

"Renounce. You can't sign your own death warrant." Draco rubbed his forehead. "I talked to Lucius today and he's not budging. Your father is out of money. And there's no other way."

"I don't want to die," she whispered.

"I know. I don't want you to either. And Pansy would never—if she knew."

She sighed heavily. "So nothing's changed."

"Nothing's changed."

And nothing ever fucking would.

Draco drained his whiskey while he stared into the depths of the fire.