Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. Depressing, but true.
Hahaha, you guys love yourselves some BAMFY Narcissa. Excellent. But what was that? You're craving some Dramione now? Ooooooh, no problem.
Shit gets real tomorrow, so pretty please review. Oh! And my dog is humping the furniture again, so I think he's getting back to normal! So awesome! Get down with your bad self, little dude! xoxo
Draco apparated at the edge of the forest next to his building, his face drawn and angry. This day was trying his patience. Actually, it had already tried his patience, chewed it up, spat it out, and was trying it again. He was at his wits' end, and he was this close to wringing someone's neck.
After his mother left, he cleaned up the broken glass and tried to formulate a plan in a futile attempt to be rational about the situation, taking deep breaths and speaking calmly to the empty room about how she was probably fine. It was just Firewhiskey. Yes, one could overdose on the stuff, but the chances of her staying conscious long enough to ingest that amount were slim. She was probably fine. No need to panic.
He didn't even manage to fool the peeling paint, and he certainly didn't manage to stop himself from panicking.
The truth was that there wasn't a bone in his body that wanted to be rational about this. What he wanted to do was charge off into the lane and look in every single dwelling until he found her. The weird fluttering he had been feeling in his chest was morphing into a strong, thumping hum and it would not rest while she was in risk of danger.
The trouble was, of course, that charging off into the lane would be insane. In fact, everything he wanted to do relating to Hermione was insane. Since the night of the rescue, strange feelings had been building inside of him, feelings he couldn't for the life of him understand. After all, Malfoys were famous for their emotional restraint - it's what made them Malfoys. Exclusive, cold, distant. A very convenient caricature in a post-War climate. Unfortunately, it was a stereotype that, for once, rang true. Malfoys didn't go out of the way for anyone unless they were bound by blood or marriage. They had more acquaintances than real friends. They could answer to authority if it worked in the favour of the family, and not for any other reason. They didn't play well with others. He had been told about this tendency since he was a child: Malfoys were blessed with money, power, and a rabid desire to protect one's own.
Money and power weren't constants, as evidenced by the aftermath of the War. The desire to protect one's own? Very much alive.
But Hermione was not his. She wasn't even close to his. She would never be his, and he had never wanted her to be. Yet, he still wanted to keep her safe, despite how irrational the instinct was. She was a Muggle-born, a bookworm, a junkie, and he was at her fucking beck and call, whether or not she had figured it out. What was happening to him? Harry Potter wanted to keep everyone safe. Not Draco Malfoy. Not when it came to Hermione Granger.
Until now, anyway.
After an hour of pacing in the office, babbling like he was off his rocker, he gave up fighting his instincts. If his stupid brain wanted him to tear up London looking for her, so be it. The first place he checked was her flat. She didn't answer the door and he did a quick spell to see if anyone was inside. Negative. Fine. She was getting plastered elsewhere, trying to forget her problems. Fair enough.
Next he tried nearly every building in the Alley, every goddamn cafe, every fucking library, the Ministry, St. Mungo's, Gringotts, every musty bookstore he could think of... Four hours of searching that yielded nothing but open stares and requests for his autograph. He was shaking with anger and worry when he finally disapparated back home. She could be dead by now. She could be fucking dead, blitzing her system with more Firewhiskey than it could handle and passing out somewhere unmarked. She had done it before, and she could do it again.
So here he was, standing at the edge of the woods, staring at the clunky old building. Should he start combing the forest, or try her flat one more time? He bit his lip, not liking either choice.
Hold on. Something wasn't right. Where was the press?
He blinked and stared at the entrance again. Was he imagining things? There had been at least one reporter camped outside his building for as long as he had lived here, and at least twenty in the past few days. Where did they all go? He looked harder, willing his eyes to work. Surely they were there. They had to be.
But the entrance was truly deserted.
Forgetting the woods for a moment, Draco stalked up to the building, his long legs taking him there in almost no time. Clearly something wasn't right here. He would check her flat first.
He threw open the main doors, getting tenser with every step. A groan echoed through the small lobby, and his head snapped over to the source. A man's body lay on the ground next to the directory list. Draco could only see his feet, the rest hidden by a cheap vinyl bench. He walked over, unsure of what he would find.
His jaw dropped and then quickly reformed into a snarl. That red hair was uncomfortably familiar. Draco's voice came out as a guttural growl.
"Weasley, you fucking worthless piece of rubbish, you'd better have an amazing excuse for being in this building, because I am not feeling generous right now."
Ron groaned again, and then turned over so Draco could see his face. Draco grimaced. He was covered in painful-looking boils, every inch of his face and all down his neck. Even his hands were covered. His eyes were nearly swollen shut, his lips puffy.
"Trying... To find... Hermione," he said, his words mumbled because of the swelling.
"You have no business finding her," Draco snapped. "She doesn't want to be found by you."
"You think... She wants... You to find her? A Malfoy?" Ron responded. Draco could see the corners of his mouth lifting in what would have been a sneer under different circumstances.
Draco stared hard at the man on the ground. Something amazing was happening inside him. The fluttering in his chest had first become a hum, and now the hum was becoming something else entirely. It felt like there was a dragon roaring under his ribs, bristling at the sheer nerve of the filth who used to call Hermione his own. This tosser needed to be taught a lesson.
It was tiring, resisting these funny instincts.
Perhaps he would just stop.
Yes, that's what he would do. Stop resisting.
Draco grabbed Ron by the collar and dragged him out of the building, Ron literally kicking and screaming the whole way. Draco didn't care. The dragon inside of his chest was giving him strength. Ron's boils were going down the further they got from the entrance. By the time they had reached the forest, he looked nearly normal. Draco dragged him into the trees, a dark smile on his face. Ron's wand was stashed in Draco's pocket now, well out of the imbecile's reach. He flexed his fingers, circling Ron like a beast of prey.
"I think we need to have a chat, Weasley," said Draco, feeling more in his element than he had in years. It had been so long since he had allowed himself to use violence to solve his problems. One little exception to his record since the War should be acceptable, especially given the situation.
Ron was rubbing his skin with relief, while at the same time looking anxiously at Draco. The agression that was emanating from the blond was unnerving. And where the fuck was his wand? He patted his pockets irritably.
"I don't want to chat, Malfoy," he snapped. "I want to talk to Hermione."
"Why?" said Draco. "She's not yours anymore. From what I hear, you are happily engaged."
Embarrassment coloured Ron's face. "Yeah, well... I guess I wanted to talk to her about that. See how she feels about the news."
"She doesn't care," Draco said, knowing it wasn't entirely true.
"How the fuck would you know?" Ron said, angrily.
"She told me. I was with her when she found out."
"You seem to be with her an awful lot, Malfoy," Ron said, suspiciously.
"I'm her boss," he said, shrugging.
"Is that all? You sure? You don't seem the type to give a damn about anyone but yourself, and yet, here we are. I'm curious, Malfoy... Are you hoping to be something more?"
Draco was surprised at how hard it was to keep his face impassive. He didn't want to be something more. He didn't. But then... He also wanted to flip over every table in magical England to make sure she wasn't hurt. Those two sentiments didn't make much sense when put together.
He decided not to dwell on it.
"No Weasley, I don't want to be something more," he replied. "Stop projecting."
"Whatever," Ron shrugged. "You know she would never have you anyway, Malfoy. You're a murdering, cold-blooded bastard. She probably just feels sorry for you, helping you out like this."
Draco twitched. He knew the words weren't true, but they inspired a fleeting sense of panic in him anyway. Too many contradictory feelings inside one body. It was making him jumpy.
"Believe what you want," Draco said, his voice misleadingly calm. "But keep away from the building. Hermione isn't there."
"There's no way you could know that," Ron scoffed. "You wouldn't even be able to get onto her floor. Wards are too strong. She only lets me and Harry through. Well, Harry now, I guess."
"Don't be stupid Weasley," Draco snorted. "I was at her flat earlier and I'm going back now."
Ron stared, seeming to be truly speechless for the first time.
"She... She gave you access?"
"Yeah. What of it?" Draco said, as Ron's dumbfounded expression started to sink in. He had just assumed he'd be able to go check on her. He hadn't considered any wards.
She must have adjusted them to allow him through.
The dragon soared in his chest.
"I can't believe that!" Ron yelled, his face reddening with anger. "Do you know how long it took for her to give me access? Six bloody months! Her own boyfriend! Six months!"
"It's not like you gave her much reason to trust you, you fucking tosspot! What, did you think she was stupid?" Draco yelled back, beginning to wonder why he was bothering to speak with this cretin at all. He could be using this time to find Hermione. "You screwed around behind her back for Merlin knows how long. You were an emotional black hole, as far as I can tell. Can't really fault her for being cautious, can you?"
Ron frowned, a look of mistaken comprehension dawning on his face. "Wait a minute... Are you shagging her?"
"Am I what?" Draco frowned. "How did you come to that brilliant conclusion?"
"Listen to how you're talking about her! Since when did you become her guard dog? This is someone you used to hate, Malfoy. Remember the names you used to call her? Remember wishing that she was dead? Now you're her big defender? So yeah, I want to know... Are you fucking shagging her?"
Draco stared openly at Ron. "I think you might actually be as stupid as you look, Weasley. That's impressive, even for you."
Ron narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. "You are, aren't you! You bloody bastard! I'm going to kill you!"
With a broken cry, Ron dove towards Draco, but Draco was much too quick for him. He stepped out of the way, guided by the warm feeling in his chest. He had Hermione's trust. Ron couldn't touch him. Nobody could touch him. And come to think of it, he wouldn't mind a small reward for all the stupidity he had been dealing with lately.
That small reward was going to be breaking several of Ron's bones.
Ron fell to the ground, landing with a thud on the leaves. Draco then levelled a clean, sharp kick to Ron's ribs, exposed as he flailed around, trying to get up. CRUNCH, CRUNCH. Two ribs broken! It must be his lucky day. Draco smiled to himself and stepped back slightly to watch Ron gasp for breath, clutching his side.
"Weasley, I think it's only fair for you to know something," Draco said, beginning to circle the man again. The next bone would have to be a bigger one. Ribs were so delicate, weren't they? Draco had never been a very delicate fighter. Calculating, yes, but not delicate. "I don't want you to say I didn't warn you."
He lunged forward and grabbed Ron's arm, wrenching it behind his back as Ron screamed in pain. The socket separated, unintentional, but convenient. Ron screamed again. He pulled the hysterical man towards a sturdy tree and brought him close enough to scratch Ron's face against the bark.
"I'm not shagging Hermione," he whispered into Ron's ear, right before he shoved Ron into the tree at a slight angle. He heard Ron's collarbone snap, and pulled him back abruptly.
"But I will kill you if you hurt her again," he finished, throwing Ron to the ground. "I will stretch it out, make you beg for mercy, and then once I've tired of it, I'll kill you. That's not a threat, Weasley. That's a promise. Now skulk back to your fiance and stay away from Hermione. You blew it."
Draco turned on his heel and began the slow walk back to the apartment complex. A satisfied warmth was spreading through his limbs. He didn't credit his Death Eater training for much, but thank Merlin he had learned how to fight. There was nothing those murderous nutters liked more than a good old-fashioned rumble until the ground was slick with blood. Weasley's broken bones were nothing in comparison. They were the violent equivalent of a pity fuck.
Now to find Hermione.
"You haven't even realized it, have you?" Ron yelled from where he was lying, his voice gasping and pitched higher than usual from the pain. "You've fallen in love with her!"
Draco stopped dead in his tracks. He turned around slowly.
"You're mental," he said as calmly as he could. "She needs my help. I'm protecting her." Protection suddenly seemed like a very mild word compared with that other one. Protection. Protection. Protection. Easy.
"Same fucking difference," said Ron. "Have fun explaining that one to the parents. Your dad will probably skin her alive. He's nothing but a monster, just like you."
Draco blinked. The dragon was gnashing its teeth. His fingers tightened around his wand, anger coaching him to do something drastic just to shut Ron up.
It occurred to him that if he murdered Ron right now, he might jeopardize his ability to go check up on Hermione.
Bother.
A blast of red light knocked Ron unconscious, and Draco lowered his hand. He pulled Ron's wand out of his pocket and tossed it over, not wanting to keep any evidence on him. After a moment's pause, he spat at Ron's feet.
"I'm not convinced you're much of an authority on love, Weasley," Draco said to the body on the ground. "So how about you shut your mouth."
Slightly shaken, Draco turned back around and walked back up the hill, determined not to be distracted again.
The lift to Hermione's flat seemed aggravatingly slow. Draco clenched his jaw with frustration as it squeaked up each level. The annoying "ping" that came with each passing floor was grating on his nerves, and he briefly wondered if he could forgo the formalities and try apparating outside her door. Best not, perhaps, given her fondness for harmful wards. There was no telling where he would end up.
As he continued his sluggish upwards trajectory, Ron's accusation bounced around in his mind. Love. What an insane suggestion. That tosser didn't know jack about what Draco was feeling. Besides, he was missing the point. This had nothing to do with love. It was about a baser instinct: for some reason Draco had become a bit protective about Hermione. He had fought the suggestion before, but he could admit it now. It was pretty hard to refute at this point. For whatever reason, he felt an itching need to make sure she was safe. Personality-wise, of course, she was the furthest thing from a damsel in distress. The irony wasn't lost on him.
Still, none of this meant he was in love with her. Christ almighty. He just wanted to know he wasn't going to find her dead in the woods. Different fucking things, Weasley.
The lift doors opened and he stepped out, half expecting to be blown out the window from some errant ward designed to keep visitors away. Nothing happened. Just as before, he was able to walk right up to her door. He raised his hand to knock, praying that she was there this time. If she wasn't, he was officially out of ideas. That meant he would have every reason to bring his search to the Ministry. He would get every Auror in London looking for her until she was found.
The door opened before he could even touch the wood.
His breath caught in his throat. He knew that charm. It recognized expected visitors. That meant she was home. That meant she wanted him to come in.
He raced in, blinking in the darkness. "Granger? Are you here?"
The layout was similar to that of his own flat, and he ran through the small rooms, checking the kitchen, living room and bedroom in a few quick strides.
A sniffling sound came from the closed door of the bathroom. He walked over quietly, turning the handle and peeking in. Now that his eyes had accustomed to the dark, he could see a shape huddled in the empty bathtub, muted sobbing echoing in the small space.
Relief flooded his body. She was alive.
"Granger," he said, quietly, kneeling down on the ground and reaching his hand out towards her. He ended up patting her head, awkwardly. "Are you okay?"
"This stuff doesn't work," she hiccuped, her voice congested, gesturing to the half empty bottle of Firewhiskey. "You should ask for a refund."
"Certainly seems like it's working to me," he said, trying hard to keep the amusement out of his voice. "Besides, there is the small problem of you having drank half of it."
"I'm so sorry," she cried, sobbing openly now. "It didn't even do what I needed. It's broken, broken..."
"Why is it broken?" he said, leaning against the lip of the tub since he was already on the ground. "What did you want it to do?"
"I need to numb things, not make the feelings stronger," she slurred.
"Ah. So the alcohol doesn't have the same effect as the pills?" he ventured a guess.
She shook her head. "Makes me feel more. Don't want to feel more."
"Yes, well, different substances give you different highs," he said. "Booze feels different than narcotics."
"That's the worst," she said tearfully. He again resisted the urge to smile. Everything was okay now. He could manage the press, the business, even Weasley. She was safe and all was right with the world.
"I take that to mean you don't drink very often?"
"No," she mumbled. "It's a bad habit."
They were both quiet as the irony of her statement sunk in.
"I was looking for you," he said, deciding to be honest with her. "I was worried."
"You don't need to worry, Draco," she said with a sad smile. "I'm an expert at this."
"Not with Firewhiskey," he smirked. "I daresay you're a rank amateur at drinking. Didn't anyone tell you it's supposed to be fun?"
She laughed, wiping her cheeks. "Oh. I guess I did something wrong then. I just feel sad."
"That's some faulty drinking right there," he said, hoping to make her smile again. "You need a lesson or two."
Another laugh. His heart felt lighter. He decided to chance a question.
"Granger, can I ask you something?"
"'Course," she murmured.
"How did you get hooked on the pills in the first place? It seems like the last thing I would ever expect you to do. When did it even start?"
"After the Final Battle," she said, staring at her toes, focusing hard as she spoke. "It's weird, but I started to notice this strange feeling inside of me... Like something was missing. I tried to fill up the missing part, I guess. That's the easiest way I can explain it. The pills gave me control when I felt like I had none."
"And how do you feel now that you're trying to get off them?"
"I'm more aware of that empty feeling," she said. "But I can handle that as long as I get control back. That's what I want more than anything. If I have control over myself, it'll be worth it. Even if I'm sad. I never want to feel like my future is dictated for me... I felt that way for far too long."
Draco thought about her words. He had always felt like something was missing, ever since he was little, but he was so used to it that he didn't give it much heed. He assumed everyone felt that way. As for having his future dictated, well, he'd always felt that way too. He'd never bothered to think otherwise.
"How is it that you manage to say deep things like that when you're completely sloshed?" he asked, amused. "Speaking of which, what are you even doing in here?"
"I've been trying to sleep," she said, as if that explained everything. "I've been having some trouble," she admitted.
"Well, you are in a bathtub," he responded, deciding to wait until morning to grill her on where she had been all day. "Might be better if you were in your bed."
"Can't walk," she said, logically. "Kept falling over. Seemed safest. Tall sides."
"Right. Well, luckily I can help with that. May I?"
At first she hesitated, but then she nodded.
With an outstretched hand, he pulled her up, and lifted her out of the tub. He half walked, half dragged her to her bed and lay her down as carefully as he could.
"Merlin Granger, you smell like a bar," he complained, pulling the covers over her.
"You smell like a bar," she countered, belligerently.
He snorted with amusement. "Feisty under any circumstance, hey Granger?"
"It's Hermione," she said, muffled into her pillow. "You know too much about me to call me by my last name."
"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes. "Anyone ever tell you that you're frustratingly stubborn, Hermione?"
"One of my more endearing qualities," she said, managing to sound nearly sober.
He smiled, sitting down on the floor and leaning against the bed frame, running his hands through his hair. Now that he had a moment to reflect, he could see what an absolute mindfuck these past few days had been. Deciding to help Hermione had altered his life so dramatically that he barely recognized himself. Last week he only knew her as the Muggle-born he bullied in school, someone he occasionally saw in the halls of his apartment complex. This week he found himself so wrapped up in her life, and she in his, that it felt as though they could never be untangled. The disinterest he felt about everyone he knew simply didn't apply to her. She was complex and sarcastic and too crazy to be boring, not to mention the fact that she was too riddled with the effects of drugs look after herself properly. Disinterest wasn't an option.
Perhaps it was that simple, the reason behind this weird protectionism, this purring beast in his chest. Maybe if she kicked the addiction, he wouldn't feel the need to look after her anymore.
Somehow he didn't quite believe it. Something was different here. After all, Blaise was his oldest friend and they had nowhere near the odd connection that he had somehow developed with Hermione. If Blaise was in trouble, he would stand up for him and try to help him out as best he could. If Hermione was in trouble, he would track down the person responsible and gut them. He knew it in his bones.
It was disturbing, but he was exhausted from thinking about it. He would examine the strange turn of events another time.
"I'm sorry about what happened at the press conference, by the way," he said, glancing over to the mess of curls that now covered her face. "Guess we'll see what the papers have to say about it tomorrow."
There was no response. She was already asleep.
He sighed and closed his eyes, deciding that he might as well stay put for a while longer. After all, if he was being honest, he really didn't have anything to go home to.