To the anonymous reviewer of January 27, 2017:
I had not touched this story in about 5 years, but something about your comment made me smile. I am doing better than okay these days and felt like inspiration might strike if I simply tried. I wrote this for you and I'm going to try to finish it for you, too.
/
Chapter 9
And Spreading Wide Across the World
Draco lay in bed that night, having drunk far too much scotch, unable to stop replaying the scene with Granger from a few hours ago. The piano had always been a source of embarrassing emotional weakness for him. As a pureblood wizard born into wealth, there would have been nothing out of the ordinary about having formal instruction in a musical instrument. But Draco had been taught by his mother, one of the few instances of familial intimacy that he could recall from either of his parents. He had taken to it naturally, making his memories of their lessons together pleasant ones full of rare smiles and even-rarer laughter. Narcissa seldom used the skill, so Draco surpassed her in ability as well as passion by the time he was fourteen. Away from Hogwarts, he was either on a broomstick or sequestered in the high-ceilinged library of Malfoy Manor.
The elaborately carved, Baroque-style piano had been purchased by Draco's grandfather, Abraxas, although he did not play. Draco imagined that it was simply another grotesque display of wealth on his ancestor's part, like many other features of the grand house. After serving decades as little more than a decorative sculpture, the mahogany and copper-accented behemoth was polished and tuned for the use of Lucius' new bride. The piano sat in the drawing room in earlier years, where Narcissa would play for the entertainment of party guests. On occasion, her sister Bellatrix might be convinced to accompany her in a song. The summer before Draco started school, his mother had the piano moved into the library so as not to inconvenience her latest redecorating endeavor.
The acoustics in the library were far superior than in the drawing room, so there it stayed. Draco would hide away there for hours, falling deeper and deeper into a sort of musical intoxication. He loved the feeling of the ivory, slick under his fingers. He loved the muscle memory motion of the pedals, pulling the tendons in his hamstring and calf. Most of all, he loved the heady satisfaction of playing a piece perfectly – his body humming with the contentment of it. These trances left him raw, vulnerable, defenseless. When Granger had touched his shoulder, it was as though she had reached her hand into that gaping wound in Draco's chest that the instrument had always seemed to open.
He reacted badly, instinctually. Even now, he could not quite separate the chaos of desire, dread, and disgust that had assaulted him simultaneously. The universe seemed determined to force Draco into imagining Granger as a sexual being – the drunk exhilaration of Friday night, the forced intimacy of putting her to bed, that fucking garter. The feeling of her warm and pliable rump in his hand was painfully vivid. As he felt himself swell under the bedclothes, Draco clenched his jaw and contemplated the unfathomable ridiculousness of the fact that he was about to get off to that insufferable know-it-all.
/
"How terribly sullen you look this morning," Fabian observed. "What has got my poor Draco in such a black mood?"
"How terribly interfering you look this morning," Draco replied mockingly, stabbing a potato with unnecessary violence.
"Don't go back to being all doom and gloom, darling. We've made such progress!"
"I am all the worse for your so-called progress."
"Does this mean that you did not give Miss Granger the help she so desperately needed last night?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Don't play coy with me, Malfoy. I've seldom seen two people more deprived."
"I have no idea what you are talking about," Draco insisted stubbornly. Fabian chewed a piece of toast thoughtfully before replying, fixing the other man with a piercing gaze.
"You need to get your head out of your cauldron. You are attracted to her. She is attracted to you. I don't understand why this is so difficult."
"There are things you do not understand. About Granger, about me, about the war."
"The war is over, Draco. You are just two consenting adults."
"Leave it, Fabian."
"For now," he agreed, bringing a cup of coffee to his lips. "But not indefinitely." Fabian turned away from Draco to strike up a conversation with Professor McGonagall, leaving the brooding blond to poke at his eggs accusingly.
/
Draco could not stop dredging up the past for the remainder of the day.
When he thought of some of the cruelties that he had inflicted upon Granger when they were at school, he felt sick with shame. Taunting her for her appearance, her wise-arse behavior, calling her a mudblood. Being genuinely glad when she had been petrified or when he thought she might be tormented by Death Eaters at the World Cup. He had been so angry at everyone and everything, lashing out to soothe his own fractured sense of self. The jealousy that he felt towards Potter and the close friendship he had formed with Granger and Weasley – so unlike the hollow toadying of Crabbe and Goyle – had always been significant.
Then came his desperate attempts to please the Dark Lord and his father. To say that his increasingly dangerous and inept schemes during sixth year had been devised under extreme duress was an understatement of epic proportions. He barely remembered the months following breaking Potter's nose on the train to school. Draco had spent hours and hours in the Room of Requirement, feverishly casting spells that stretched his magical abilities to their limits. He attended classes and meals in a haze, barking orders at Crabbe and Goyle, hardly ever seeing daylight. His visits to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom became more frequent, his terror giving over to despair as he sobbed to the sympathetic shade.
Yet his solitary fears were nothing compared to those felt by the entire castle when Draco finally succeeded in his mission. Death Eaters breached Hogwarts, bringing death and destruction in their wake. He had watched Dumbledore's final moments as though in a dream, unable to believe that such a mighty force could be extinguished so easily.
Draco had thought his life was hell before that night. But outside the safety of Hogwarts walls, he had learned what it meant to be truly afraid. He would never forget the look in Granger's eyes as Bellatrix subjected her to the Cruciatus Curse. Helpless, but defiant as ever.
How could the girl who had looked at him that way, tears streaming down her face and screams ripping from her throat, ever see him as anything but a source of pain and revulsion?
/
By Friday, Draco was passing entire hours without thinking of Granger at all. He was therefore struck with abject horror to find her having a cup of tea in the staffroom that afternoon. She glanced up at his entrance and reddened – with embarrassment or rage, Draco would never know.
"Not your usual haunt, Granger," he said flatly.
"I had an appointment with Professor Binns," she replied. "But it appears I have been stood up."
"Time management no doubt falls by the wayside when one is dead."
"Indeed," Granger mused. She began packing the parchment and quills she had laid on the table into her bag, engaging him no further.
"Look, Granger-," Draco began, stopping abruptly when she looked up and fixed him with narrowed eyes.
"You don't need to explain anything, Malfoy," the brunette assured him, cleaning her teacup with a wave of her wand. "I'm just a filthy little mudblood, after all." She stood up and moved to put her cup and saucer back in the cabinet. As she turned away from him, Draco grasped her lightly by the forearm and stopped her from going any further. Granger looked down at his hand, neither speaking nor attempting to release his hold.
"I'm sorry for ever calling you that," Draco stated simply. "And for the other night." He let go of her arm and sighed. "I'm sorry for a lot of things." She looked up then, her eyes seeming to look through him for what felt like hours, though it was likely only seconds.
"I believe you," she told him. And with those three words, Draco felt a weight lift from him that he did not even know existed. Granger had seen the worst of him, been the victim of his malice more than once herself, and yet she was not looking at him the way most people looked at him.
He had stepped towards her unconsciously and now realized that he was much too close. Draco heard her breathing turn shallower and felt the space between them become unbearable. She closed her eyes and he could see every eyelash, dark against her skin. As he leaned in to kiss her, he caught the smell of something like honey and apples.
Their lips had barely touched when the sound of porcelain smashing on stone broke the silence and they skittered away from each other like terrified animals.
"Fuck," Hermione pronounced loudly. Draco blinked several times before repairing her broken dishes and summoning them into his open hand. He levitated them into the cupboard with a flick of his wand. Before he could conjure anything from the depths of his stupid brain with which to form words, Professor Flitwick swept in with a handful of scrolls.
"Why, hello there! Miss Granger, Professor," the tiny man greeted, nodding at them each in turn.
"Hello, Professor," Hermione answered, breathless. "I was just going, I'm afraid! Do enjoy your weekend." She seized her bag and hurried out the room without another word.
"Is she quite all right?" Flitwick wondered aloud.
"Nothing to worry about," Draco assured him. "Just getting back to work on her project."
"Of course, of course," the other man agreed, sitting down and settling in to grade his fifth year student's essays on principles of levitation.
/
Draco did not want to talk to Fabian about his love life. However, he wanted to talk to anyone else about his love life even less.
"Ah, they always come crawling back!" Fabian pronounced dramatically, standing aside so that Draco could enter his office.
"You are terribly unattractive when you are smug." The Englishman told him as he strode inside, collapsing heavily into a straight-backed wooden chair. He helped himself to the tea tray on the table next to him, pouring a steaming mug of the dark liquid. Holding it up to his nose, he closed his eyes and inhaled the reassuring smell of sweet, bitter earth.
"Shall I leave you two alone?" the dark-haired man asked after a long moment. Draco opened his eyes a fraction to see Fabian looking at him with poorly-concealed amusement.
"There has been an incident," Draco said darkly.
"Oh?"
"Related to our discussion this morning."
"You mean the one where you told me to bugger off?"
"Yes."
"Very rude, indeed."
"Yes, Fabian, I am a villain of the worst kind," the blond admitted melodramatically. "Satisfied?"
"Seldom if ever," he responded. "But I will take pity on you nonetheless." Fabian sat down across the table from Draco, pouring his own mug of tea and polluting it with a truly disgusting amount of milk and sugar. Swirling his teaspoon, he looked at Draco expectantly.
"There may be something between Granger and I."
"May be?"
"There is."
"And what has led you, at long last, to this blatantly obvious conclusion?"
"There was contact."
"Oh, Draco. You old charmer," Fabian said dryly, rolling his eyes. "What manner of contact, pray tell?"
"Physical," he gritted out.
"Oh my heavens!" squawked the Irishman, hand going to his chest as if clutching an imaginary set of pearls. His face then changed from theatrically scandalized to openly irritated, at which point he spoke again. "Would you please stop being so fucking cryptic and just tell me what you came here to tell me?"
"Our lips may have touched for a fraction of a moment."
"Wow, boring," Fabian responded. "Come back when you have something juicier."
"Could you at least pretend to be helpful?" Draco asked him.
"Fine, fine. How did it make you feel?"
"Well… good," he admitted. "But that doesn't mean anything. How many people do you think are lining up to kiss me on a daily basis? A kiss from most anyone would be equally as pleasant, surely. There was nothing special about kissing Granger." Fabian set his mug down with purpose and leaned forward, grabbing Draco by the front of his robes. He kissed him thoroughly, one hand in Draco's hair and the other wrapped around the back of his neck. After a few moments, Fabian released him and let the dazed blond blink at him stupidly.
"Now, that was nice, wasn't it?" Fabian inquired.
"I suppose it was," Draco agreed.
"As nice as kissing Hermione for a fraction of a moment?"
"…No," the other man realized, looking at Fabian in confusion.
"Perhaps you should go think about why that is."
"Yes," Draco nodded, getting up from the table. "Thanks for that."
"Of course, one assumes you don't like kissing men in general," Fabian pointed out as Draco opened the door to leave. The Potions Master turned around with an entirely Slytherin smirk on his pale face.
"Whatever gave you that idea?" he asked, giving him an enormous wink before disappearing down the hall.
/