A/N: Better late than never :P
Enjoy!
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...
As soon as Draco's feet hit the ground in Cumbria, he stalks towards a wooded area rather than ascend Mount fucking Everest. "FUUUUCK!" he yells as he kicks a tree, feeling his already weak Occlumency shields failing. "FUCK!" he yells again, unable to calm down. All Draco knows is that there's an uncomfortable tension in his chest, and it feels like his brain is literally melting. He also feels like he's being torn in two different directions. There's an overwhelming urge to run up the fucking mountain to unleash his pent-up adrenaline whilst also feeling exhausted and close to collapsing.
And so, instead of doing either, Draco grits his teeth, pacing back and forth, trying to recalibrate and shove whatever the fuck just happened back at Spinner's End into a box. All he wants to do is bury everything in the graveyard where all his hopes and dreams have already gone to die – decaying in the barren wasteland of his non-beating heart, turning into something rotten– something vile. The thought that someone – no, not just someone – Granger – had nailed him to the fucking wall with her fucking astute observation - the fucking Swot - is hard to swallow.
...I think he operates his cult through grooming and brainwashing...
...I believe he condones the sexual coercion and abuse amongst his ranks because his best chance at creating his perfect Death Eater...
...those who will be ruthless enough to carry out his will...
...is to destroy their soul...
"Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you," Draco repeats over and over, pulling on his shabby hair as the sting on his scalp redirects some of the pain inside his head, creating a strange sensation of relief.
Granger's existence has always been a cause of confusion and strife for Draco, and the thought she sees him as some broken, naive child is worse than if she had thought he became a Death Eater for the glory. Logically, he knows he's overreacting, but once again, it's like he's not the one in control and can't seem to stop himself from having a fucking fit or whatever is happening.
Draco nearly walks into a tree in his distress and reacts by pulling back a fist and swiftly landing a blow onto the offending Elm. Unbothered by the sensation of his knuckles splitting open, Draco pulls back and punches again.
And again.
And again.
Draco continues to unleash his rage on the tree bark - wishing he'd had the courage to fight back when he was younger, as his anger moves from the fucking obtuse Swot towards one of the people – if you can even call him that – that truly ruined everything. If ever Draco is sure of something, it is that before he takes his final ragged breath, he will murder Fenrir Greyback.
A sudden sound of an apparition alerts Draco he's not alone anymore, but he's too far gone to care, vaguely aware someone is calling his name. He can't stop himself from assaulting the tree, getting in every blow he never had the chance to whenever the beast took advantage of him.
"Draco," he hears again, only this time the person places their hand on his shoulder.
"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME!" Draco barks as he whirls around, nearly landing a punch right onto Charlie Weasley's face. "DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING TOUCH ME!"
Charlie immediately backs up with his hands in the air as Draco's rage continues to rise to a boiling point, feeling like he's fucking melting. He glares at Charlie, who still has his hands up, looking at him calculatingly. After a few seconds, Charlie makes a very sublet movement with his hand, conjuring a glass of water. "When was the last time you drank water?" he asks calmly.
The question throws Draco off guard, momentarily tamping down his fury and replacing it with confusion. "What the fuck?" Draco says, breathing heavily, eyeing the water, realising he doesn't remember. "I don't know."
"I'm going to set this glass of water on the ground for you," says Charlie as he does just what he says before taking a few steps away from the glass, hands once again held in the air.
Draco is so confused by what the ginger is doing that he just goes with it, now feeling the intense pain in his left hand and curling it into his chest before taking a few steps and grabbing the glass of water. He keeps his eyes on Charlie as he drinks, thinking if it's poison, he'll drop dead and be done with everything. And if it's just water, then – well– it's just fucking water.
Surprisingly, once the water hits his mouth, Draco realises just how fucking thirsty he is as he downs the entire glass in seconds before throwing it at the tree and watching it shatter.
Might as well get one last hit in.
"Better?" asks Charlie, still calm as ever.
Draco only nods, noticing his breathing has evened out. His instincts have him attempting to Occlude now that he's not acting like a fucking psycho, but his head still hurts, and the tension in his chest begins to creep back in.
"How are you feeling physically?" asks Charlie. Again, the question breaks Draco's state as he assesses himself.
"I think I broke my hand," he says honestly.
"I'm also going to assume you're overheated, Malfoy. It's unusually warm today, and you're standing in the sun, working up a sweat in those black robes."
Draco realises Charlie isn't wrong. He's fucking hot, and now noticing it isn't just his rage that has been boiling - it's his whole body. Without much thought, he takes off his cloak, feeling the cool breeze hit the back of his neck. And then, not giving a fuck, he takes off his shirt, feeling more comfortable physically, which surprisingly lessons some of the emotional tension in his chest. "I lost my shit because I was thirsty and hot," he mutters.
"It happens," chuckles Charlie, remaining in his spot as he lowers his hands. "Can I help you with that?" he asks, pointing to Draco's injured hand. Draco nods his consent.
"Where'd you learn to do that - the water?" asks Draco as Charlie approaches him with his wand. He winces when the wizard mutters a spell as the bones in his hand go back into place. Then he finishes by healing all the abrasions on his knuckles.
"Drinking forces you to breathe at a normal rate, so -" he shrugs. "It's a quick way to calm down - it wasn't uncommon for the new dragon handlers to have small fits of panic first day on the job."
"You worked with dragons?" asks Draco looking over Charlie's arms and face, now understanding where the burns came from.
"Most of these came from the younger ones," Charlie continues, following Draco's gaze to the scars on his arms. "And more often than not, it was simply because they hadn't learned to regulate their body temperature. Younger dragons learn how to cool down from their mothers and through socialising with more of their kind. But with all the poaching, many are raised in captivity and never learn the skill. It's hazardous for the dragon and everyone nearby."
"I read about that," says Draco, thinking about his favourite reading subject as a little boy. "How a dragon could overheat and have no other options other than to unleash the fire within their belly, laying waste to everything in the vicinity until they drop dead," he pauses. "Didn't realise it could translate to people," he mutters, following behind Charlie up the – very inconvenient slope of land. The uncomfortable tightness remains in his chest, but it's oddly more manageable now that he's not overheating. "So, not only am I mentally like a fucking child – I'm essentially as capable as an unsocialised baby dragon," he adds, shaking his head, too exhausted to feel anything other than a resigned humiliation.
"You know – the interesting thing about an unsocialised dragon is that they often develop the ability to withstand pretty much anything," says Charlie, twirling his wand between his calloused fingers. "Yes, as a dragon handler, I had to go in and help them catch up to their peers – to essentially hold their wing and show them how. But once they are finally given the proper direction, they end up mastering their abilities to regulate better than the dragons born in the wild under their mother's wings." Charlie pauses and looks back at Draco.
"Trial by fire," the ginger states. "If they don't learn the skill - as you said - they'll die. And so, the stakes are higher. Many of the dragons learn skills beyond what nature would simply teach. Sort of like when most of us learned to be medics on the battlefield. You pick up a few unconventional ways to save a life —" he eyes Draco. "Or a hand," he smirks. "And the next thing you know, you're more useful than the fucking Healers who studied from books and practised in a low-stress environment for decades."
Draco remains quiet, contemplating Charlie's words. He may be emotionally stunted, but he's not an idiot, and the ginger is obviously trying to encourage him. Strangely, Draco feels somewhat comforted at the thought he might be able to go through a day without a mental breakdown and resist the urge to Occlude one fucking day. They continue to walk silently as Draco clutches his shirt and robes in his hands, knowing that his Dark Mark is on display. But before he can cover it up, Charlie speaks.
"We've all got scars, Draco."
Draco looks over to see Charlie eyeing his Mark and nods, not wanting to talk about it. Thankfully, the older wizard doesn't comment further as they enter the safe house. He half expects the children to rush towards him like usual, but instead, he watches Paul and Maisie smile softly before returning their attention to playing with the little boys. But then he gets the sinking feeling that someone might have told another someone who then told all the little someones not to bother Mr Draco. The thought that the children are trying to tiptoe around his flailing emotions puts him on edge, and not wanting to do something stupid - again - he puts up his shields, grateful he can at least somewhat dull his discomfort.
Ron gives Draco a nod and then turns to Charlie, and Draco wonders if Granger sent a Patronus about his unexpected visit, given he doesn't seem alarmed that he left Cumbria without telling him.
"Any luck?" asks Ron to Charlie, causing Draco to furrow his brow, wondering what he's referring to.
"We've got a few possible leads. Thankfully, one is a Squib, so it should be easier to get him involved," says Charlie before turning to Draco. "We're looking into some Muggle contractors - builders - to help with enlarging the safehouse as you suggested."
Draco stands awkwardly, not knowing how to respond to the fact that they actually fucking listened to his idea.
"We suggested," Molly chimes in.
Running a hand through his hair, he notices Molly gently laying the baby down in a small cot she'd transfigured near the bed.
"Joint effort," she adds, smiling as she moves closer to where they are standing. But her smile turns into a thin line when she looks Draco up and down, and he feels uncomfortably vulnerable. "I think it's time we took care of that," she says, pointing to his hair, and he realises why she had been giving him a once over. "I'll get the scissors."
…
Draco takes a moment to close his eyes as he sits on a fucking stool with barber Weasley attempting to make him look somewhat presentable. The sound of the sheers' blades, cutting through his dirty locks as they drop to his bare neck – making him fucking itchy – is slightly soothing. Even so, the activity of getting a fucking haircut is so odd in comparison to the past few hours that all he can do is just sit and stare.
Again, Draco finds he's strangely calm, not even Occluding – just naturally numb. It's also comforting to listen to the children quietly playing. Of course, Paul had returned to drawing while Maisie entertained the boys with a round of eye spy. Apparently, while he'd been away, Paul and Maisie took it upon themselves to name the little ones - Peter and Parker. Although, he's not sure which is which.
Ron and Charlie slipped outside to discuss the next steps with enlarging the safe house and moving more children. Draco tries not to think about it, though. They briefly mentioned that for two to three weeks, they'll all be displaced, living in other safe houses while the bothy is converted into a full-on second headquarters of sorts.
And even though it was partly his idea, the thought of adjusting to another drastic change is unnerving, keeping him subtly holding his shields. He can tell that the more he relaxes, the stronger his Occlusion. Which isn't entirely helpful given he doesn't need to Occlude when he's calm. He needs it to not get fucking Avada'd in the middle of their Death Eater reports. But Granger mentioned he would have to taper off, so he figures he's fucking done enough "self-regulation" for one day.
Draco makes his shields strong at the thought of Granger. The knowledge that she's got an entire fucking journal filled with all her little theories about his behaviour makes him sick to his stomach. It feels like he's too exposed. If Granger could deduce so many things just from "how he looked sixth year," how many others also read him so easily? How many other students and professors - friends - noticed he was struggling and did nothing.
Draco knows he was a fucking arsehole to a lot of people (still is) and can't help but feel like he must have deserved it.
All of it.
And now here he is, getting a fucking haircut from Molly Weasley while the Burned One and Beardy are discussing how best to follow his idea.
Obviously, the Order needs him. That much is clear. Having a Death Eater in their pocket to bend to their will. But they could easily make him sleep outside or keep him chained up when he's not working. And yet, they're taking care of him.
Helping him.
And as grateful as Draco is to not be locked away in a dungeon, their kindness is disorienting, furthering his inability to make sense of anything. It's like playing Wizards Chess but being told all the rules have changed, yet as he looks at the board, he can't discern the differences, and when he expects a piece to move a certain way and it does something different, it unsettles him. It feels like he's walking in sinking sand, and everything he's learned to rely on – who he is – shifts beneath his feet as his entire foundation of self disintegrates.
At least when he'd been a Death Eater, he knew his role and how to act. Being told what to do and just fucking doing it.
Like a good little soldier.
"Take a look," he hears Molly say, causing him to return to reality as she hands him a small mirror.
Draco looks at his reflection, and it's like some strange illusion as he doesn't even recognise himself. Not that he looks all that different. In fact, Molly managed to cut his hair, similar to how it was the last time he had a haircut.
Just before he'd been Marked.
Before he murdered Hound - the first life he'd ever taken intentionally.
Before he'd been burdened with his impossible tasks.
Before Greyback violated him.
Draco continues to study his face, and it's like he's just woken up from some nightmare that stretched over five years - probably longer.
"I don't know who I am," he finally says.
"Is it that different?" chuckles Molly, messing with his hair with a soft smile gracing her lips. But then she seems to realise he's not talking about his fucking hair as her smile slips away.
"I don't–" Draco shoves the mirror back into Molly's hand, not in anger but in disgust with himself. He hasn't examined his own fucking thoughts and feelings in years. Truthfully, he's never examined himself. Nor did he think much about the actions that led him to where he is now.
A broken waste of space.
Occlusion was the one thing he had to keep moving forward like a fucking Inferius - just an animated corpse, manipulated like a fucking puppet for the Dark Lord.
And now it's like his rotted flesh is being forced to house the very soul that he thought had been destroyed, only to find out it had simply been buried inside the coffin of his Occlusion. And yet, his new reality feels like he's cut off his fucking arms and has to relearn how to function without them.
Draco puts his head in his hands, not wanting to scare the children, as he quietly cries. "Fuck," he finally rasps.
"Go lie down," says Molly.
Draco lifts his head with a furrowed brow, hearing her commanding tone. But then he realises she's not giving him a choice, and the direct order unexpectedly fills him with relief. It's like she's given him a small guidepost to nudge him in the right direction. And apparently, that direction is to sleep. There's a slight hesitation, not caring to appear weak, but Molly's already seen him cry over Pansy's death and fucking piss himself from torture without judgement, so he might as well listen to the witch. Besides, Molly Mother Fucking Weasley is his handler, and he's supposed to listen to her. And if his spy handler is telling him to take a fucking nap, then, fuck it – he's going to take a fucking nap.
Draco slowly stands and, without much thought, moves to the bed beside the baby cot. He shifts to a lying position and, within seconds, passes out, entering a dreamless sleep.
…
Draco wakes to Anaka's soft cries as he slowly pushes into a seated position. Looking around, he can see that it's the middle of the night, and the rest of the children are asleep on their camp beds.
"Molly?" he softly calls, but there's no answer as Anaka's cries get louder. He can see the baby wriggling around, moving side to side, seemingly frustrated. He also hears soft murmuring outside the structure and can only assume the others are having some late-night discussion – probably about him. But Draco doesn't dwell on the thought as he moves closer to the cot. Anaka continues to kick her feet, turning her head, and he wonders if she's dirty or hungry – probably both.
"Fuck," Draco exhales as he rubs his face, looking around again. But then he hears the baby's crying turn into a coo as he looks back. "Oh," he says, seeing she's simply rolled over. "Are you learning new skills too," he huffs, watching Anaka's features transform from a moment of peace to stress as she moves around again, clearly unhappy with her decision to change positions. "Come here," he sighs, reaching out and picking up the baby to place her on her back again.
And, of course, she starts to cry again. Draco rolls the baby back over – still crying. Then he picks her up, and surprisingly she stops. "Okay –" Draco places her back in the cot, and the crying starts again. "For the love," he huffs, picking her back up and again, she stops crying. "You expect me to just fucking – hold you?" he says in confusion. But the baby closes her eyes as she falls asleep in his arms. Draco looks around, wondering what to do, but then scoots his back against the wall as he adjusts the baby into a more comfortable position.
The stars shine through the open window just enough that Draco can study Anaka's tiny features. Other than when he first held the child, Draco hadn't ever seen a baby up close. It's strange to think he'd been so small at some point. So helpless and having to rely on someone else to take care of all his needs. "I guess not much has changed," he muses, realising at twenty that he feels helpless and has to rely on others. Not just others - the Weasleys. "Could be worse," he says as if Anaka is listening to him. "Could have been stuck with Potter," he chuckles.
After a few minutes of peaceful silence, Draco has to shift the baby, feeling his arms getting sore.
"Mother would have a fit if she saw me now," he whispers like it's a secret. That somehow, if he says it too loud, Narcissa will hear him and manage to find a way to witness her son holding a fucking baby.
Anaka makes a slight wheezing sound with her nose as she breathes, and Draco can't help rubbing her little belly. "How the fuck do women do it?" he says, cringing at the thought of childbirth, making his balls ache in phantom pain and quickly moving on from the idea.
Draco lays his head against the wall, falling further down the hole of not knowing who he is anymore. He was a Death Eater not too long ago – now he's taking naps when he's cranky and holding a fucking baby feeling the most peaceful he's been in a long time. As he closes his eyes, Draco feels a breeze flow through the open window, ghosting his cheeks, and he's taken back to one of his happiest memories.
His mother had taken him on a special holiday after the traumatising event of accidentally killing his House Elf, Tilly. Even now, just thinking about the young Elf brings him grief for what he'd done. His mother slept in his bed for months because of his nightmares and then decided he needed time away from everything. They'd gone to France, and his mother had secretly transfigured all their clothes into Muggle attire, where they'd stayed in a small Muggle town where she did her best to not use magic. He remembers eating the terrible food she'd tried to cook for them and loving every minute.
He also remembers going to the breezy beach and working so hard at building a sandcastle all by himself after an older Muggle girl lent him a small pail and shovel. He spent ages on his masterpiece. But to his horror, the tide came in before he could finish, destroying everything.
Southern France, August 1997
"Why are you so sad, my darling," says his mother, putting her book down and looking him over in concern.
"It's gone – everything – it's all gone," Draco cries, pointing to the wet clump of sand where his creation had once sat. "The sea came and took it from me."
Narcissa stands and takes Draco's hand. "Let's have a look," she says calmly as he guides her to the site of the devastation. "Oh, my. I see." His mother bends down, looking closely as he wipes his tears. "You know what this means –" she says, looking back at him with a smile.
"What?" he croaks. How can his mother look so happy? His world is destroyed - there's nothing left. Doesn't she understand how hard he'd worked? Draco feels his mother swipe her thumb across his tear-stained cheek.
"It means now you get to create something new, Draco. And this time – you'll have someone to help."
Wiping a single tear, Draco thinks about the elaborate sandcastle his mother helped him build. Not only did she help him find a better location - ensuring the sea wouldn't wash it away - she also helped him collect shells and sticks to decorate. He closes his eyes again and wonders if he can find the picture book from their trip. Narcissa Malfoy had even figured out how to use a Muggle camera to document his most sacred memories. He'd kept the photos hidden under his bed, and Draco suddenly realises they were probably still there.
"What the fuck," Draco gasps, eyes shooting open when he feels the baby fucking put her mouth on his bare chest, clearly looking for something that's not there. "Fuck," he rasps, wincing in pain when her little hand painfully clamps onto his fucking nipple and yanks. "Salazar," he huffs, gently pushing her hand away. "Close but not quite, Anaka. Good Godric, I'm glad I have a cock," he says, not wanting to imagine yet another thing women go through to bring life into the world.
"What's going on here?" He hears Molly's voice say as she quietly moves closer to the bed, smiling sweetly at him. She must have entered the safe house when he was warding off the extraordinarily awkward and unconventional nipple clamp.
"Uh – the baby was crying – er – I think she's hungry," Draco says, scrunching his nose as Molly gently takes the baby, allowing him to rub the reddened spot on his chest.
"Oh, my," laughs Molly. "Come here," she says, tilting her head towards the kitchen area. Draco pushes out of bed and follows, wondering if Molly is a Legilimens with how quickly the witch understood how her simple directives are helping him keep his head on straight. "Grab that there." She juts her chin towards a clean baby bottle as she rocks Anaka, who, on cue, begins to fuss, indicating a full-on cry is imminent. "Put that in," Molly then directs. Draco grabs the formula box as Molly tells him how much to put in before adding the water.
"It's cold," Draco says as he shakes the bottle, putting his rusty potioneering skills to use.
"She doesn't mind," says Molly as she takes the bottle allowing Anaka to feed. "We can't risk getting her used to warm bottles. If we're ever in a situation where we can't use magic to warm the milk, it could be dangerous because she might refuse to eat."
"Right," says Draco, returning to the harsh reality that Anaka had been born into. "You'll be ready to be a grandmum when the time comes," he says awkwardly, thinking about Molly's daughter. "Your daughter – uh – with Potter?" he says, hoping he's not made a massive error in assuming the young witch was pregnant.
"My Ginny," says Molly proudly. "Although I would have preferred them not to bring a baby into this mess, but– it's something to look forward to," she says as she moves to a chair while Anaka greedily drinks down her midnight snack. "Instead of saying goodbye – we'll be saying hello," she says softly, almost as if she hadn't meant to say it out loud.
Draco quietly sits, not knowing what to say, watching Molly move Anaka onto her shoulder and pat the baby's back.
"Can I ask you a question?" Draco starts, going against his better judgement. Yet at this point, he's so far from the shore of anything familiar that he figures, fuck it.
"I believe you just did," says Molly cheekily as the baby lets out a burp.
Draco taps his fingers on the table and scrubs a hand over his face. "How do I get Granger off my fucking back?" he says, trying to not sound too angry. Of course, he fails because – he's fucking angry.
"She meant well," starts Molly, and Draco knows he'd be lashing out if he wasn't surrounded by sleeping children. Instead, he clenches his fist. "I'm not saying how they tried to help was right or dismiss what happened," adds Molly.
"She had no right," Draco hisses in a harsh whisper. "She had Snape fucking use Legilimency on me to the point I fucking went barmy. I still can't Occlude more than some weak shields if I don't want to feel like my head will explode," he huffs. "It's whatever - though," he says, shaking his head. "I meant to keep her off my back as in mind her own business. She's been keeping all these fucking notes about me in my fucking dead relative's journal. Analysing me for fuck knows why - long before all the brain damage shite."
"Draco," begins Molly, her tone has him narrowing his eyes. "Do you want my honest opinion?" Molly's shift in demeanour has him more curious than anything else.
"Don't tell me she's fucking in love with me or some shite," he huffs, hoping she's not that pathetic.
Thankfully Molly rolls her eyes at him, indicating the Swot is not harbouring some seriously misguided feelings. "I think she was still trying to make sense of her own trauma."
Draco tilts his head in bewilderment. "What the fuck does that have to do with me?"
"Hermione is like a daughter to me, Draco. I've known her since she was a wide-eyed little girl learning about the wonderful Wizarding World. And as you obviously know, her parents are Muggles. And given her parents are Muggles, it was much more difficult for her to communicate with them. Especially when a young girl might need her mother for impromptu advice or a shoulder to cry on." Draco nervously shifts in his seat, now beginning to regret opening his stupid fucking mouth. "Who do you think stepped in to play that role?"
"You," he says, studying the woodgrain of the old table.
"Did you know that you were the one who introduced her to the word Mudblood?" says Molly. And her tone of voice is still so fucking kind that he subtly puts up his Occlumency shields to prepare himself to look in the mirror again. Only he already knows what the reflection will reveal.
"I guess that's why she barely reacted," Draco says, still looking at the table, vividly remembering how infuriating it was that Granger didn't even flinch when he hurled the insult at her. And he's not about to tell Molly it was the first time he'd ever used it, wanting to hurt her for hurting him first.
"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in. They got in on pure talent."
He had worked so hard that summer and that stupid fucking idiotic wish list, his father found. He never knew if he'd truly been good enough. Constantly questioning if he had any talent at all. His father simply wanted to make sure Draco got what he wanted - but what he'd wanted was to earn the things he'd written on his list.
"She would subtly ask me how to manage your cruelty," Molly says gently, bringing him back to the conversation. "I was the one who told her to be the bigger person. I knew the family you came from, and although I hadn't met you – I will admit I made assumptions about how you were raised," she says again, not accusingly but as if she was also putting pieces together in her brain making Draco feel like he might as well take off the rest of his fucking clothes with how exposed he's feeling.
"Granger's entire existence was like a curse following me around," Draco sighs. "I spent weeks every summer preparing for Hogwarts years before I even received my letter. My father didn't react well to learning that a Mud– Muggle-born beat me time and again. She seems to be a common theme in being around at the worst possible moments of my life."
"And have you considered that Hermione feels the same way?" Draco finally looks up to see Molly sporting an unreadable expression. "Do you realise that you have been a common theme in the worst possible moments of her life?"
"I–"
"You were her first kiss."
Draco closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. "Fuck."
"And know that I'm only sharing this with you because I think understanding the consequences of your actions when you were young will only strengthen you when you inevitably have to confront the things you've done as an adult," says Molly sternly.
"Fuck," he mutters again, too sickened to even be embarrassed that Granger told Molly about what happened between them, now seeing the whole fucking disaster in a new light. Granger hadn't even kissed before, and he just - left her like that. "I didn't know."
"Ron and Harry noticed a change in her after that night. She closed in on herself. That summer, I talked with her, and it all spilt out. She believed every word you'd said. Mind you, she didn't give me details. Just that you kissed her as a joke, and then you said some nasty things."
"I didn't know," Draco repeats, knowing the excuse is utter bullshite. "I didn't fucking mean it," he says, wanting to throw up. Molly looks alarmed as he abruptly stands from the table, but she doesn't realise they hadn't just kissed. They'd had sex. He didn't just ruin her first kiss; he took her fucking virginity and then left her there like rubbish, too fucking humiliated and prideful to give a fuck about how his thoughtless actions and words would affect her.
Just like it'd always been between them.
Draco quickly moves outside and can't help dropping on all fours, vomiting in the grass. Of course, he knew he hurt her feelings – he meant to. But he never considered that she'd actually believed him. He was fucking crying while telling her he did it for a laugh. He wanted to kiss her because he simply wanted to kiss her. And then he lost control because he was a stupid fucking horny teenager. It never occurred to him that she actually believed it was some perverted prank - that he manipulated her to have sex with him to humiliate her.
"You say you don't want this, but your body tells me otherwise, Draco."
Draco feels a sob wrack through his body. As much as he hates Granger, the thought that he'd made her feel even an ounce of what Greyback made him feel is too much to handle as his last encounter with the insane wolf forces its way to the forefront of his memory. Waiting in the woods for Snape with his Aunt Bellatrix and Fenrir lurking nearby after he failed to kill Dumbledore. He'd gone all sixth year dreading seeing the beast after he tormented all year, and his aunt sensed his discomfort.
She knew.
So, of course, the bitch purposely left them alone, knowing Greyback would take advantage of the situation.
"Breathe," he hears Molly say as she rubs his back. "Ron and Charlie can sleep through anything – they're around back – they won't hear you." The witch probably assumes he's simply overreacting because of his stupid fucking childish brain, and Draco doesn't know if he can take any more humiliation, being seen as something so fucking fragile. "Hermione isn't one to stay down for long. If she doesn't understand something – comes across a challenge— she'll study and analyse it to death to get past it. As much as you say Hermione's existence has confused you, it goes both ways." Draco Occludes while also trying to take deep breaths relaxing in the absence of emotion. "You'll work it out," Molly adds, handing him a fucking shirt he quickly pulls on. As much as Draco disagrees, focusing on his hostile relationship with Granger is better than sinking further into his nightmares. Although, the thought of "working it out" with Granger might also be a nightmare of a different sort.
"I think I'll wait until I mature past a fucking fourteen-year-old before I try and work it out," Draco huffs.
"Well, I'll be the first to say I think you have," says Molly causing Draco to raise a brow. "You're a solid fifteen now," she smirks.
Draco forces a small laugh, not having it in him to convey how utterly distraught he'd be if he wasn't Occluding. Or that the levity is giving him emotional whiplash. But his lip lifts slightly anyway, knowing Molly's still caring for him. And Draco wonders if mothering is her unique way of coping.
"You know -" Draco sighs. "You're one of the good ones, Molly."
…
"Of fucking course," Draco mutters as he sits outside to try and find himself. But the clouds in the night sky make it impossible to see anything recognisable to find the Draco constellation. How fitting.
Refraining from replaying that horrible night in his mind is challenging, even with his Occlusion. How he'd found her in his favourite spot and the sudden urge to make her upset – to make her fucking cry. But then he'd been hit with the sickening feeling that Krum had hurt her, followed by the annoyed relief when he realised she was just upset because of Weasely being an idiot. But then he thinks about when everything went to shit.
Her first kiss.
Draco catches a glimpse of the moon peeking out of the clouds, feeling like he's been hit by a fucking train. He wasn't just being cruel to Granger at Hogwarts. He was a fucking monster. He'd been tormenting her for years, and she still got on her fucking knees to restore that fucking curtain for him.
…We're treating you like a human being.
Draco doesn't hesitate a second more and apparates.
…
Draco hovers his hand over the door of Spinner's End, not entirely sure what he's trying to accomplish. He can see a faint light coming from his old window – her window – and can only hope to Godric that Granger is awake and will be the one to answer the door.
He tentatively knocks and waits before knocking again. Taking another breath, Draco considers leaving, realising he's probably about to make things so much worse. What did he think was going to happen? That he'd come and apologise for coercing her to have sex with him before turning on her, hoping to devastate her in his anger and humiliation simply because he couldn't perform?
Draco closes his eyes as their voices ring in his memories.
"Malfoy, it's not a big deal – it's our first time –"
"And last, you fucking bitch. Granger — I never want to ever have you even remotely near me. Your fucking cunt stinks. The only reason I kissed you is that you're such a pathetic lonely – ugly – Mudblood, and I thought it would be – funny."
"Malfoy?"
Draco quickly blinks his eyes open to see Granger standing at the door, looking slightly alarmed.
Not alarmed.
She looks scared.
He takes a step back, putting some distance between them, realising he probably seems threatening to her. She has every reason to think he might hurt her – when have any of their interactions been anything otherwise? All he can find within himself to do is place his hand over his heart and tap a few times as he resists the urge to Occlude, feeling the sea of emotions approaching once again. Only this time, he's not going to run away. This time he's going stay where he is and let it destroy him.
He deserves it.
"I'm not like him," Draco blurts, not even having meant to. And he hates himself even more because he came to Spinner's End to apologise – at least he thinks he did – and now he's making it about himself. But seeing her frightened of him sent the first wave of destruction, and in his cowardice, he's still trying to salvage something. "I'm not like him," he says again, voice shaking. "Fuck, Granger – please tell me I'm not like him," he begs.
"Malfoy – what are you talking about?" Granger asks in confusion.
"That night," Draco says, clearing his throat. "I didn't realise — I took advantage of you and just left you there," he says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, he can't help letting out a quick sob. "I'm a monster. I just took what I wanted and threw you away because it didn't go how I'd hoped, and I didn't care about you or your feelings."
Granger's eyes get glassy, and she quickly wipes her face before looking back at him. "It's cold," she states as she moves away from the door. "Come inside," she nods, and Draco can see she's using her own form of blocking emotions as she shoves her feelings down and puts on a stoic face. He hesitates, not wanting to enter the home, but eventually steps inside as she silently leads him to the small bedroom. Granger pulls out her wand and casts a silencing charm as Draco stands stiffly just inside the doorway, wondering if she feels threatened and he's making her feel obligated to hear him out.
"You devastated me," Granger says flatly.
Draco can only close his eyes. He's not fourteen. He's fucking four - closing his eyes - thinking it a clever way to hide.
"I know," Draco says before opening his eyes again. Granger is standing by her window, where Draco notices his mother's curtains have found a new home. "I seem to have a knack for ruining things."
Granger looks at the curtains and back at him. "You're not like him," she says with a sigh. "What you did was – cruel and cowardly, but – I –" she huffs. "I didn't exactly tell you no."
"Oh, fuck no," Draco snaps. "Don't give me that shite, Granger. Fuck," he growls. "Fucking draw your wand and hex me or something," he yells. "Fuck, Granger – I didn't exactly say no," he mocks. "When Greyback –" he trails off and waves his hand. "I didn't exactly say no, either. At least not the – the last time."
"Malfoy," she says gently, making him want to punch a fucking wall. "What happened to you was horrific and I'm not – I don't even have the words to know what to say. But you're projecting your experience onto my experience," she adds.
"You said I devastated you, Granger. What the fuck am I supposed to think? You're just too stubborn to admit that I –"
"Stop," Granger interrupts. "Get over yourself, Malfoy. I've never let you have that much power over me," she says coldly. "You weren't the only person that devastated me that night."
"Weasley," he states, wondering if he should take up Divination seeing he was fucking correct in thinking he was going make things worse.
"And you found me heartbroken and vulnerable, but – I don't know. You made me laugh," she says, nearly chuckling at the absurdity. "And I thought –" she shakes her head. "I think we were both just confused. So, yes, I was devastated when you left. You humiliated me, and I believed what you'd said about doing it for a laugh. But I worked through it. And frankly, the thought that you think a few horrible insults broke me to the point that I'm still affected six years later is more insulting than telling me my cunt stinks. You even had the audacity to come here to apologise like I've been waiting for you to save me. Please don't tell me how to feel."
"Fuck, Granger. I'm not trying to tell you how to feel. I was trying to warn you about being too forgiving –"
"Who says I've forgiven you?" she says, cutting him off again. "And you haven't even apologised. You just came here and started processing what happened to make yourself feel better," she says defensively. "You said I know nothing about you – well – to be frank, Malfoy, you know nothing about me. You asked me not to treat you like a child – not to patronise you – well, here it is - I don't forgive you."
"Good," Draco says, feeling nearly drunk on all the heightened emotion he's been swimming in, knowing when the waters recede, he'll be nothing but a clump of wet sand. He came here to apologise, not to seek forgiveness. This is what he wanted. "I should go," he finally says but then realises he still never even said he was fucking sorry. "Ron will have a fit if he finds I'm gone too long," he mutters, rubbing his brow.
"You should," Granger affirms as Draco moves to the door. "Malfoy," she calls, causing him to pause. He turns to see her holding out the journal.
"Keep it, Granger. I'm not ready for more of your painful insights into my pathetic life."
Granger nods and he almost laughs that she doesn't even try to convince him his life isn't pathetic. But then he watches in confusion as she waves her hand over the journal before offering it back to him.
"What -"
"You might not be ready for insights into your own life - which were just my observations and not facts - but it could help to have someone who might know what you're going through - even if he can't talk back. I removed all my notes. It's just a young man's journal now."
Draco takes the journal, and without wanting to drag things out anymore, he gives a curt nod before he steps back and apparates directly from Granger's room to Cumbria. There's a strange feeling of calmness as he walks to the safe house, and Draco can only suppose that it's the eerie stillness after the devastation. Surveying if there's anything left – anything he recognises from who he was. The thought of having to rebuild himself is daunting, and a part of him is still fucking stubborn. He's tempted to quickly put everything back to its original state, not knowing how to rebuild the inner framework of Draco Lucius Malfoy.
But as Draco gets closer to the safe house, he remembers his mother's guiding hand and the help she provided to rebuild the new sandcastle – far better than the original. And even though his mother isn't the one staying with him in the safe house, he knows there might be a few already waiting helpers willing to lend a hand.