Part 3 of 4: Yeah, I remember, I remember, I remember.
It was Saturday, that much Draco could discern. It was Saturday and sometime near afternoon. He bolted upright in his bed, thinking he was late to Quidditch practice (and he was the captain!), making him scramble to get ready, until he realized that last night they were celebrating their successful season. He remembered vaguely that he had given a toast to all of his teammates for doing their duty by playing with as much passion as they could muster. They cheered him, thanking him, pouring drink after drink even after he grinned and half-heartedly asked them to stop.
Malfoy lied back in bed, dragging a pillow to wrap his arms around and place his head on top. He needed to think, his eyes trailing towards the yellowed parchment that was placed prominently on his desk. He groaned, cursing the sun and the current heat that was stifling his room. Dragging his feet out of bed, he sat on the edge, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He padded his way to his private bathroom, staring at the mirror, and grimacing at his unpolished look. He hated looking in the mirror in the mornings. It reminded him of the things he had done late at night.
His eyes were red and slightly puffy – nothing that a well placed charm couldn't handle. He just hated the fact that they were like that; he never had that problem until recently. He handled his bathroom duty before jumping into the shower, the lukewarm water cleansing him. Malfoy placed his head under the water, his palms flat against the wall as he braced himself. He looked down at the floor, reminiscing over the past couple of months. Plagued with guilt at that moment, he decided to drench himself with cold water as punishment. His high-pitched scream bounced inside the bathroom.
Sprawling back against the bed, water droplets running down his lean torso, he Accio-ed the parchment. He read Hermione's words for what it seemed to be the hundredth time. His imagination flew to the likes of this unheard character "Adrian," and what he could possibly have that Malfoy didn't have. He couldn't have Malfoy's aristocratic looks from the high nose to the polished hands; he couldn't have a voracious appetite for Hermione nor be able to keep up with her. Hermione was gifted with the world of magic (and the world of the mundane – no, Muggles, yes, that's what Draco meant), and Adrian couldn't possible even begin to fathom what that meant.
Malfoy considered himself to be the perfect match to Hermione. And even though it was a very unlikely match, he was grateful for the time that he was allotted with her. It was such a shame that she was born from Muggle parents.
He supposed he was angry at himself and his decisions at the end of fifth year. He was angry at being easily lured into a trap by Granger and Potter when he was working for Umbridge. He hated how Granger always seemed to figure all the missing pieces of the puzzle, and he also detested the fact that she always had to explain those things to Potter and Weasel. If they didn't have her, he scoffed; they would ultimately be destroyed by Voldemort.
But when Malfoy heard of the battle between his father and the Aurors, he knew that meant that the Dark Lord was ready to confront the magic world. It wouldn't be long before he began seeking out Muggles, Mudbloods, and Squibs. He had understood then at that time that now people's lives were at stake whether magical blood or no.
Malfoy hated the way that his father would tell him that his future was to serve Voldemort for as long he lived. Malfoy was determined to create his own destiny, that only he was responsible for himself. Now, sitting quietly in his bed, he rubbed his lips when he remembered his summer of fifth year.
"It is almost time for you to take the Mark, my boy," Lucius had spoken excitedly to him. He was sitting in the mahogany, high-back chair in the kitchen, the Daily Prophet spread out in front of him. He was whispering to him, his paranoia coming to the point where he thought that the Ministry had placed spells around his house so that they could hear every little thing going on. Draco was rather disgusted by the way that Lucius had begun to act, knowing perfectly well that the Ministry could not do that (right?).
"It's time for you to make us proud," he continued, hard glints in his eye as he stared at his son. "The Dark Lord wants you to take the Mark as soon as possible so that others will know that you have been branded as his."
Draco reared back with scorn. "Father, please do not mistake my tone as disobedient, but surely you don't mean that I must be tattooed while school is in session?"
Lucius had stared at him blankly. At that moment, Draco wanted as little as possible to do with Voldemort, his Father, all that Death Eater rubbish. He couldn't possibly be expecting to be cavorting with these psychopathic hypocrites.
Draco explained with a sneer, "It would be rather obvious if I appeared at school with a black blemish on my exquisitely pale left arm, Father. Although my fellow acquaintances in Slytherin would be very excited, I cannot say the same to all my other peers in that blasted school. In fact, it would create even more suspicion, thus resulting in Potter and his cronies following me and attempting to using Polyjuice Potion to try to wrangle secrets out of me. It would also increase the suspicion from the Headmaster, as well." He was staring at his father while he spoke those words, carefully calculating his expression.
Apparently, he wasn't calculating it carefully enough.
Lucius's hand was around Draco's throat within seconds, his nails blurring with speed as he dug into Draco's skin. Draco dared not to close his eyes, his mercurial orbs shifting slightly from the left to right. He felt the force of his father's hand crushing his esophagus, his breathing channel closing, and he had to resist the urge to fight his father off. He couldn't show his father fear.
"I have given you much freedom, Draco, and I have spoiled you since the day you were born. But don't you dare take that to an advantage; even I will call upon the Killing Curse against you. You shall never dare to disrespect me ever again, nor do I expect the same contempt when you are on your knees in front of the Dark Lord. I have let you fail me repeatedly, what with Potter cavorting around, shoving his Quidditch skills in your face, the Mudblood receiving higher marks than you in every single class, and even the Weasley pauper has more potential for greatness than you. And at this rate, the only thing that seems to place you above all others is your expendability to our cause," Lucius's breath hissed at Draco's face, his anger flaring in his eyes. "So, watch your step boy. You'll expect that mark right after your graduation, as you so will it."
With a flurry of his robes and a dashing stroke of his hand, Draco was flung across the room, his lip swollen and bleeding from the impact of the kitchen table, a nasty gash forming on the side of his head, beneath his blonde locks. Lucius had left the kitchen, his retreating back all that Draco could stare at as he vowed to take his father down.
When he returned to Hogwarts, he remembered seeing the gaunt faces of the Insufferable Trio, their tired eyes screaming they had seen horrors that no one else could see, and he could remember clearly how Granger's usually warm and lively brown eyes were hard and pensive. And as much as he detested the bushy-haired girl, he knew how much her current life was breaking her down inside.
To be completely honest, he had spent the first week and a half – maybe two – avoiding Hermione, testing her. And as he glanced at her from Prefect meetings, during meals or class, she seemed to be growing paler and thinner. Her cheekbones jutted harshly against her skin, and finally, after two weeks of silence, he broke it. She had carelessly dropped her wand while attempting to transfigure a jewelry box into a cat, her hands shaking from lack of sleep. Malfoy could see tears brimming at the surface, and perhaps she would have begun to weep bitterly if he hadn't stepped in and silkily mention how if she kept it up, Parkinson would soon be able to get the Head Girl position.
And he left her miserably frustrated, as she threw a small paperback at him and missed horribly. Her stifled moan of anger was nothing as Hermione quickly picked her wand up and shouted Petrificus totalus! on Draco. Out of sheer luck, he had ducked to pick up the book as she threw the curse at him. When he saw that it hit Weasel, he grinned at her, "I would have never even known it was coming. Thanks, Granger." He quickly fled as Hermione ran to care for Ron, shooting darts from her eyes at Malfoy.
The next day he noticed her eating more, laughing, reading, becoming excited.
He felt that he had accomplished something. He realized at that moment that the children at Hogwarts were not ready for a War. They came to Hogwarts as a release, as a penchant for "normalcy." And they all needed to feel that, so Malfoy had come to the conclusion to act as if nothing had happened. To act as if he still reigned Slytherin and Hogwarts due to his dashing good looks and aristocratic beliefs. He used the term mudblood out of his upbringing, using it only to rile his fellow classmates, but never daring to look straight in the eyes of who it was specifically aimed at.
All sixth-year-and-up prefects were assigned to hall duty, partnered with someone from another House for the whole year. (Apparently, it was safer to stick two school students together to patrol the halls – and no, of course they weren't going to take this time as a snog session.) Malfoy was stuck with the incessant talking of Alexandra Carnes from Hufflepuff – apparently the only person who wasn't scared of him. She suffered a minor accident that tragically landed her switching to become someone else's partner. Malfoy denied any type of recourse with her, of course, although he could barely contain his smirk. Then, after the month of January, Hermione's partner, Lon Byron (a pureblood from Slytherin who was quite cordial, much to Hermione's amusement) was ordered by his family to return home to take over the family business. Malfoy and Hermione were partner-less and it was against the rules for them to wander alone at night.
They became partners much to each other's chagrin.
At first, they had tried to insult each other, gauging each other's reactions. Later, it had calmed into playful banter and offhand remarks about each other's welfare. He had mentioned to her that eating breakfast was a vital meal to start the day, and she had told him that overloading his hair with hair products would make his strands easier to break and he would have to "up the dosage."
"Are you being serious, Granger? I surely hope you're not. Besides, what do you know about hair when you have that mangled bird's nest on top of your head?" Still, he ran his fingers through his hair, slicking it back more, and hurried to catch up with Hermione's brisk pace. She had giggled slightly and said nothing. Malfoy smiled ruefully at her back before quickly replacing it with a scowl, and when they were done with hall duty, he retreated to his room, maneuvering swiftly through the Common Room and his dorm, so as not to wake anyone. He had stayed up that night, replaying all of their fights together in public, and all of their miniscule admonitions of friendship when in private. Huddling underneath his fluffy black down duvet, he came to a conclusion.
That was before he had cornered Hermione.
He felt deliciously rebellious when he began to memorize every curve of Hermione's body. He felt every part the bad boy when he knew where and how to kiss Hermione for her mews to grace his ears. Malfoy knew that his death was immediate if his father ever found out, but at that moment, he could have cared less. He was infatuated with everything about her: the wild untamed mane of rustic curls, the pink not-too-thin-but-not-too-thick lips, the innocent sway of her hips.
If anything, Malfoy had always been honest to her. He didn't mind hurting her feelings when it was time to be honest. Consequently, he didn't hold anything back when his father had sent him messages of future Death Eater attacks. However, when it was seventh year, Lucius received from the Dark Lord suspicions that someone was revealing certain information to the other side. Lucius had stopped telling his son anything of the Dark Lord's business, his anger apparent at Draco's earlier outburst during the summer.
When Hermione and Draco had become Head Girl and Boy, respectively, they had rushed into their Common Room immediately. They consecrated practically every part as theirs, their bodies a writhing heap of tangled legs and fumbled words of love and desire. They would stay in together, and when Hermione dragged out a Polaroid camera ("What's this? The pictures don't even move, Granger! What a waste of time," he smirked), they had snapped various amounts of pictures together. He had them all in his room, locked in a wooden box from Arabia that came with its own Unbreakable lock that only the specified owner could open. And even if they couldn't move (in the pictures), Hermione had explained to him, they were snapshots of Time, a way of cherishing that specific moment.
But, he supposed, he hadn't been honest to her. After their argument about the attack on during Yuletide, he had understood that she didn't trust him the way that he trusted her. Which was frightening to admit to himself that he did trust her in that way. He remembered feeling hurt and disbelief towards Hermione's reaction. He had stayed in his room (like how he was doing now, his fingers lightly tracing his arm), resolving to get her out from under his skin. He hated feeling vulnerable to her, knowing that he had sacrificed so much for her, and yet she took it for granted.
He had started taking up on other girls' propositions, his hands itching for a warm female body. And if he couldn't have Hermione care for him, then he wouldn't disillusion himself with her. He would make sure that he could correspond in rendezvous where he didn't give a damn about the other girl. There had only been one or two other girls, but in the end, he had come off so ashamed and guilty that he didn't dare look at them. He didn't dare keep up with their harrowing messages, asking for a repeat of their previous excursions. He pretended that they didn't exist.
It was less painful that way.
He would drink until he was smashed in the Slytherin House, knowing fully well that he should be condoning those activities, but he couldn't say anything when he was doing the same. He wondered if Hermione was allowing the same thing, but deciding that she probably wasn't and was doing her rightful Head Girl duties in denying them access to booze. But he realized over the months that he had never had to guess what she was doing. He always knew, and he never had to second-guess because he always asked her and she always told him. He knew the distance that was encroaching upon them, and he knew that it was mostly his fault, but he couldn't help but feel angry with her. It was her fault as well, he reasoned.
And back to present day, he felt resentment towards her, for actually even considering any relationship with this Muggle-born character, Adrian. He felt betrayed that she couldn't even talk to him, and that she had to write down thoughts for herself. And he felt like an ungrateful bastard for doing these things to her.
He stretched his sore muscles, his body bruised. He was unable to concentrate well, his grades not as stellar as it had been for him to achieve Head Boy status. He had the occasional slip-up, but the rest of his grades were as high as before. When he had to practice for Quidditch, he would fly aimlessly, forgetting to look for the Snitch as he tried to think of ways to be with Hermione again. A couple of times, a stray Bludger had hit him, and he would have almost fallen to the ground if he hadn't grasped onto his broom with dear life.
But he couldn't help feeling dejected, his hand itching to teach her a lesson, when Hermione had shrugged off his reasons of various black-and-blues on his body, her eyes staring at him accusing of lies. His anger had boiled and with a final snort of disgust, he had walked away from her, vowing to make her feel sorry.
But he didn't mean to go this far. And he didn't know what to do to stop and reconcile things.
He strolled over to his desk, his fingers twirling his quill. Over and over again, he couldn't think of anything to write towards her. If he started, he knew that he wouldn't be able to stop. He didn't even know how to begin; he wasn't sure if his feelings could be described accurately in written words. He was much better of a speaker than a writer.
Hermione:
I suppose it just never crossed our minds to ever mention other people. I suppose it's because we always thought that we'd have each other for the rest of the year. You never told me about Adrian. But you're right; you probably never thought that you would need to. I stumbled upon your entry, and I don't think you would have ever told me about Adrian until it was too late.
You really think this guy is going to make it all right to you? You know he could never understand anything about you. You know that. And you know the only person for you is ME. You're everything to me – from your rather annoying smarts to the perfect molding of your body to mine. And if you think you could possibly ever fall in love with him – you're lying, and you know it. You would be lying to yourself and to everyone around you. But maybe this one is it; maybe this is the one who will hold you in his arms, blissfully unaware of the fact that you could kill him with two simple words. Maybe he's the one who could hold conversations with you about all of the things you want to hear: pedigree, herbology, transfiguration, charms, S.P.E.W., yeah, maybe he'll keep you interested about whacking weeds or screwing a thing that you put in so that you can have light. I bet that's what you've always wanted, isn't it?
Or maybe I just know you too well (and you know that).
And as much as you say that I don't feel anything, I remember. I remember, I remember, not everything, but mostly everything. You don't give me enough credit, my dear. I still remember the times when I would hold you against the window in the Owlery, your hair parted from the side of your neck. I remember the time that I left you a love bite so big that Weasel and Potty thought someone had punched you. I remember when you would wait for me while I came back to the Common Room, and you would hold me and kiss me.
You would do these things like I was the only man for you. I was the Prince Charming to your Muggle damsel in distress. Not that you ever really need saving, but please, let me keep my pride intact. Who else can match your wit, your fiery quips attempting to reduce my manhood? No one can truly appreciate you the way that I can.
You told me that you could never be in love with another man. I guess that doesn't mean anything anymore?
And now you want to leave. Maybe I forgot a couple of things – it doesn't mean that I don't remember how it feels when you're lying naked next to me.
I can still remember the way your body moves underneath mine, your moans telling me how good I am. It felt so lonely sleeping by myself last night. I can't remember at any time we have slept by ourselves during this whole year. My bed was cold; I was begging for your warmth. I had dreams of you last night, Hermione. Your arms were wrapped around me, and I felt complete. I need you. I need you with me. Merlin, I can't believe I'm saying this.
I'm sorry for everything, I'm so, so, so sorry…
Malfoy's hand burned as he finished writing his letter. His hand muscles were cramping as he had written each word, hesitating, wondering if he should go through with this. He had spent almost the whole day locked in his room, and his stomach growled impatiently. He closed his eyes, his mind woozy as he strained for effort. With more travail, he went to his Arabian box, unlocking it, and finding pictures of a smiling and unmoving Hermione and himself. There were hundreds of pictures of them cozy together, their arms wrapped around each other; their faces close but not kissing. They were pictures of a normal relationship, however confined to one room.
He picked out his favorite picture and sealed it in an envelope with his letter, her name scrawled on top. Malfoy padded over to her room, his slick hair plastered against his forehead. Damn the heat, he thought, his hand placed cautiously on top of the knob. Hermione was a very clever witch, trained to bewitch anything to any intruder with harmful intentions. However, he had to forego it, and when he pushed inside, he saw the rumpled sheets that he had given her. They were evidence that she had had a fitful sleep, tossing and turning. (Because of me?)
It had been a while since he had been in her room. He scanned it cautiously, golden from the light illuminating from the window. And then his eyes landed on the notebook that she had carried with her last night. Unable to contain his curiosity, he was mesmerized towards it, his hand lightly reaching out to touch it. It felt electric under his fingertips, and when he opened it, it seemed to turn exactly to words that he did not want to see. It showed him how many times she had agonized over him – how many times she had kept her thoughts to herself.
His throat closed up, the heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets. He would not cry. He deserved every word – this, he knew, and in frustration, he ripped the page out. Malfoy felt satisfied when he saw the excerpt floating away from him. So he began to tear out other pages of Hermione's pain from him, watching them land in various spots in her dormitory. When there was no more pages left of him, he closed it, binding the notebook tightly, with his envelope on top.
He left quickly to grab something to eat, glancing sparingly with recognition at the grinning, cunning faces from his Slytherin counterparts. He stole a glance at the Gryffindor table, his eyes automatically searching for the Head Girl. She was there, laughing at Weasley's antics, Potty's arm draped over the female redhead's shoulders. Malfoy glared at Hermione, at the Weasel, and she seemed to have noticed his eyes boring into her. She turned, her smile still in place from Weasley's joke, and she looked at Malfoy with an almost dismissive expression before returning to Weasley.
Malfoy was furious. He took his food gallantly from the table, stalking off towards the doors to exit with a flourish of his robes. He caught Hermione staring at him, her lips pursed into a frown. He curled his lip at her in a traditional sneer and walked back to their rooms.
He went into Hermione's room and curled into a fetal position on her bed, her sheets covering his half-nude body. He had stripped himself of clothing when entering her unbearably warm den, already sweating from his exertion of walking from the door to her bed. (How could she possibly live in this?)
He attempted to trace Hermione's lithe form against his body, recalling how her body looked like when she was snuggled against him. He fell asleep, still envisioning her in his arms, her head settled on his chest, lazily drawing patterns, her leg curled around his waist in a possessive manner. Yeah, he remembered that.