A/N: Thank y'all so much for your patience lately. College graduation hit me hard, so the break was very much needed.
Betawork done by AlmondMilkTeaDoubleBoba, LeilahMoon, and lost_poet.
Update 1/7/22: My best friend commissioned art from VESPERICS for my birthday and I am OBSESSED. Thank you Lizzie for capturing this scene so perfectly!!
TW: Panic/anxiety attack in the last scene.
xoxo, carm
-
She couldn't believe it.
Hermione was sat on the edge of the prefect's bath, fully clothed, but with her feet dangling in the warm water. It was the only inch of warmth that encapsulated her body. The rest of her felt numb.
That was the best way to describe it – the numbness. Deep down, Hermione had known that there was something going on with Malfoy. It was only a bottomless dive of nothingness – a black haze that simply existed to do nothing but swallow her whole. It served no real purpose – none other than to say 'I was right,' and suddenly she knew how it felt to be constantly one-upped in class.
She felt sick. So sick, she had to fight the bile that rose in her throat only to prove her wrong, to prove that she had something to lose, and she hated it.
It had been the same gut feeling that let her know when something was about to go horribly, horribly wrong. It was the same feeling that told her to use a mirror before peeking around that one corner in second year. The same feeling that hit her like a punch to the gut when Lupin had started to transform in third year.
It had never steered her wrong, and she was slightly disheartened to note that it still had yet to fail her.
When she'd seen the ink on his arm, it had been painful and horrifying, but all of the feelings that swarmed her were drenched in complete disappointment.
She dug the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to force her mind, as well as her body, to go numb. It wasn't working – it never did. Hermione could feel the emotions all bubbling up, trying to come to a crux that wasn't there.
Without thinking, she took a deep breath and plunged straight into the hot water of the prefect's bath, completely submerging herself. Scrunching her eyes shut, Hermione let out a scream as strong as she could muster. She screamed until her lungs burned, were pleading for air, and if she were being honest with herself, she contemplated letting herself drop unconscious right there. Sink like a dead weight to the bottom and just stay there in ignorant bliss.
But, alas, she was Hermione Granger, and she wasn't about to give up a fight – especially with herself. Plus, she still had things to yell at Malfoy for, questions she needed to ask him.
So she shot up to the surface, gulping in the air in heavy, thick gasps. And then she submerged herself and did it again.
And again.
And again.
On the fifth submersion, she felt that she had it all out, at least for the time being. Stepping out of the tub, she had a sudden urge to go and talk to Draco; lay it all on the line.
Not bothering to dry herself, she stormed through the darkened hallways, sopping wet, and headed for the empty classroom she knew he liked to study in. Blasting open the door with a surge of magic, she flew into the room in a blur of red, gold, and brown.
He startled, jumping in his seat as he took in the sight of her, unable to mask his shock. "Granger?" he asked, eyebrows meeting in the center of his forehead. "What are you doing here? And why are you all wet?"
Disregarding his question, she said, "I just want to know one thing." Her chest heaved, weighed down with the question she was terrified to ask, but more scared of getting the wrong answer. "Do you still mean it?"
He still looked thrown, like he didn't understand her question, so she clarified. "Your Mark," she looked pointedly at his arm. "Do. You. Still. Mean it?" she asked again.
Draco's eyes widened a touch before seeming to blink in confusion. His mouth dropped open, his lips parting so she could see the whites of his teeth. Her monologue continued, since he hadn't given her an answer – and she tended to ramble when she was nervous.
"Draco, I don't know if this would make sense to you, but there comes a certain age where blatant ignorance and disrespect becomes, not of a product of upbringing, but a conscious decision, a choice. And now, I am asking you," she walked closer to him, still dripping wet. Her eyes turned vulnerable, pleading with him to give her the right answer. "Would you still make that choice?" Light fingers brushed over the sleeve where she knew his Dark Mark to be, trailing water onto his white shirt.
The water bled through, sticking the shirt to his pale skin and making the dark ink press against it, revealing itself to her.
Long, pale fingers wrapped around her wrist, moving them away from his forearm. Her eyes met his, and instead he brought his hands to cup her face, dropping his forehead to rest upon hers. Fire met ice as his eyes blazed at her, and her heart skipped a beat.
"No." His answer seemed almost fervent, like he was praying to his past self – future self – to not make the same decision, to fix it, to change it. "No, Hermione, I wouldn't." His eyes seemed so deep, and it felt like she could see the myriad of emotions that burned through him in that moment. His gaze, coupled with his admission, was as close to an apology as she knew she would get. It was a regret for everything he had done and would inevitably have to do. But she accepted it.
Her breath left her in a gasp, and she surged up on her toes, capturing his lips with hers. It was a hot kiss, rushed, filled with fire and heat – despite being soaked to the bone, she felt like she was standing on the surface of the sun.
Draco's mouth moved down to her neck, mottling the skin there as she whimpered. "Please."
He chuckled, and the sound of it brought more words forth. "What do you want, Granger?" he purred against her skin, digging that much deeper to find out what more he could give her. "Tell me, I want you to tell me."
"I want more," she said, the words leaving her on a breath that she couldn't keep in any longer.
And it was the way she stilled that gave her away. If she had arched into him as she'd said it, she could have passed it off. But there were multiple layers of meaning written into those three little words, and he could feel them.
He lifted his head, looking at her again. "What?"
Hermione sighed, bringing her bottom lip in between her teeth, worrying it. "You heard me."
"I did," he said slowly, "but what did you mean," he emphasized.
"I think you know," she shot back, "it's not exactly rocket science."
At that, he looked puzzled. "What?"
"Nevermind," she sighed. "It's not hard to figure out. You say you regret branding yourself, but you have nothing to show for it. You say that you don't mean it anymore, but how am I supposed to know that?"
"I–" he started.
"Prove it," she insisted, her words filled with passion.
This was her last stand, and Hermione had no real idea of how this was going to go. Their entire... 'relationship' – for lack of a better term – had been so hot and cold, so vengeful and harsh at points. If this went south, she had nothing else to give, nothing up her sleeve.
Steeling herself, she said, "Prove to me that you are more than that Mark on your arm."
"Prove it?" he asked. He looked frustrated, but his face was twinged with hesitation, discomfort. Clearly, this was a conversation he was uncomfortable having.
"We've been doing this for, what, four months? Five? What's the point of being limited to," she waved her hand, "this? Not to mention," she added, "I've had to make so many excuses for where I go, what I do. My friends happen to be quite observant when they so choose. I know you're used to doing what you want, but I have people I need to make excuses to, and I'm running out of them." This much was true, Hermione really was exasperated. Even Harry was growing suspicious of how much time she was spending with him, and he knew. "Why not just... make it easier on everyone?"
Draco looked at her, regarding her, and he seemed to be turning a thought over and over in his head. Her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, and she had to keep reminding herself that this was reconnaissance, this was just for reconnaissance.
But she knew that she was in too deep. And she didn't quite mind – depending on his answer, that is.
"I see what you mean," he said, "but you're mine. You know it, I know it, why does it matter who else does?" He looked like he was fighting something – his eyes were cold, a bit dead, and it felt... odd.
"I guess you're right," she said, "maybe it wouldn't be the best idea." Hermione smirked, "Guess I will go tell McLaggen that I'm single then," she quipped, turning to leave and taking a few steps away from him.
She knew that what she was doing was low, but if she had to manipulate him just a touch to get what she wanted, was it really so bad? It could be construed as a very Slytherin thing to do.
"Wait." His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist again. "That fucker? Seriously? What did he say to you?" he half-snarled.
"Oh, nothing," she replied breezily. "Just that he wanted to study together sometime. And that I've never seen him study for anything a day in his life. It wasn't hard to put together."
He yanked her back into him, his lips returning to her neck, rougher now, as if trying to mark her – which she knew to be exactly what he was doing. "No," he said, walking her back until she was pressed up against the brick of the castle, "absolutely not. You'd better tell him to fuck off."
"And why would I do that?" she retorted, feeling the rough stone through her thin, soaked clothes. "You just said–"
"Fuck what I just said," he bit out. "You're mine, and that is an indisputable fact." The words fell from his lips as if it pained him to have to keep them in any longer. As if he'd been teasing himself with the idea of it, as if he were a man parched and had finally allowed himself water.
"No one else can have you, because you don't want them," her mouth popped open a bit at his comment, but he continued before she could cut him off. "You don't want them, and you know you don't. Not the way you want me. And no one could ever possibly want anyone the way I want you." Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. "There is no one that is allowed to have you besides me. Do you understand that? Can you even begin to conceptualize that?"
He paused, breathing heavily, before launching back into his surprise declaration. If she didn't know better, she would have assumed that he was fueled by rage. But she knew, she knew that look in his eye. The one he didn't ever want her to see, but the very same one he couldn't hide from her – not when she knew where to look.
It was passion. Raw, burning passion – the kind that tore you apart and ate you alive if you gave it a way in. She could see it tainting his words, saturating the way he looked at her. There was a power in his stance that she'd never seen before, one that was contagious, made her want to stand up straighter and meet his eyes. It made her want to be closer to him, and so she pushed up on her toes just enough to make herself that much taller.
She was enraptured by him, but he barely noticed – barely looked away from her eyes. Draco continued on his verbal rampage, the words flowing more than freely now. "I don't care if the entire world knows that you're mine, I don't give a damn if the world completely burns to the ground because of it. Fuck, I'd burn it all down myself right this instant if it meant I got to keep you." There was the passion again. It was blinding, all encompassing, and she wanted to let it burn her alive.
Hermione's heart was pounding faster now, her breath coming in shallow, barely there gasps. Her lungs were taking a beating tonight, but she couldn't bring herself to care. Eyes wide and surprised, her breath suddenly caught as she realized just how much sincerity was bared to her in them.
"To hell with it," he laughed once, and it was almost an endearing sound – a complete deviation from his previous declaration. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, taking a deep, yet shaky, breath. His cheeks were flushed – she was sure hers were, too – and he dipped his head, bringing his forehead back to hers. His hands cupped her face again, thumbs stroking her cheeks ever so gently, and he let out a soft sigh as his lips just barely brushed across hers.
Both of their eyes dropped shut, and they each inhaled the other's breaths.
"Whatever makes you happy, Granger," came his whisper, and the resolute finality of it shook her to her bones. "That's what I want."
-
Hermione found herself in the library, still reeling from her conversation with Draco last night. She couldn't believe the tide had turned in her favor, and she was honestly waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She had reread the same few sentences over and over and was on the verge of giving up when a person dropping down into the seat across from her caused her to look up.
"Zabini?" she asked, startled.
"In the flesh," he quipped.
"What... what are you doing here?" she asked hesitantly as she eyed him.
"Needed help with my Transfiguration essay," he replied easily. "You're the top of our class, who better to ask for help?"
Hermione was so rattled that she accepted without a thought. It wasn't until they were almost halfway through that she realized that Blaise was fairly skilled in Transfiguration – not too far behind her. Having been too surprised by his ask to notice, she hadn't questioned his motives. After all, this happened fairly often – people she didn't know too well came up to ask her for help sometimes. It just came with the territory; she was used to it.
She put her quill down and folded her hands, staring at him.
Zabini looked up at her, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "What?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Why are you really here?" she asked. "You're good at Transfiguration, too good to be asking me for help. What are you playing at?" she pressed.
Eyebrows raised, he pressed the corners of his mouth down in an innocuous gesture. "Nothing," he said, "just needed help." He paused. "Besides, can't I get to know you? You're a good ally to have."
Hermione slowly shook her head. "You're a Slytherin. I know you've got some kind of ulterior motive. If I knew what it was, maybe we could cut to the chase quicker." With pursed lips, she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in her seat. "Go on," she intoned, "hit me with it."
Blaise shook his head. "Such a Gryffindor," he muttered. He eyed her, pursing his lips before speaking. "Draco's been acting rather odd lately, don't you think?" he asked.
"You're his friend," she shot back. "Wouldn't you know better than me?"
Looking slightly impressed, he said, "Answering a question with a question. Not bad, Granger, not bad at all. You're learning." He paused, a lightbulb seeming to go off. "But if you're learning, then someone must be teaching you," he added, looking smug – like he knew he'd gotten the upper hand.
"Maybe I'm just secretly conniving. The Sorting Hat considered putting me in Slytherin," she said indignantly with her chin tilted slightly up.
Surprise flitted across his face. "Did it really?"
"No," she smirked, "but you didn't know that."
Letting out one short laugh, he nodded at her. "Alright, Granger. I'll give it to you," he said. "Didn't really see that one coming," he muttered under his breath.
"There's a lot you don't know about me, Zabini," she said, quirking a brow. "And I have half a mind to find out why you're asking me questions about Malfoy, but I have a feeling you wouldn't tell me if I asked."
"Hey," he started, trying to placate her, "I had a feeling you two were closer than either of you let on – I wanted to find out if it was true."
She looked at him with a healthy mix of suspicion and disbelief. "You had a feeling," she deadpanned. "Really?"
"Runs in the family," he said. "And you're still avoiding my question, which means I'm probably closer to the truth than you'd like," he pointed out.
"And why would I tell you if it were?" she asked. "I'm fairly certain this is the first time we've spoken of our own free will. I'm not at all inclined to tell you anything," Hermione replied airily. "Besides, why wouldn't you go directly to him?"
"Merlin, you two are just a little bit too alike for my tastes," he muttered. Raising his voice, he added, "Because he wouldn't tell me," he rolled his eyes, "obviously. I was hoping I could get a little more out of you," he sighed and propped his feet up. "But I'm seeing now that I should have sent Theo. He has a knack for getting information out of people."
"Ah, Nott," she said, reminiscing on their brief conversation. He was an odd character, but helpful – and a bit funny.
"So you've met?" Blaise asked.
"I had to ask him a... personal question," she said. "Nothing of consequence," she waved it away.
"So... nothing about a Christmas present for a certain blonde Slytherin?" he replied.
Hermione froze. Damn it, she really thought she'd had him. "And what if it were?" she asked, still holding firm in her tone.
"Nothing," he shrugged. "I was curious. And also wondering how long it would take you two losers to finally admit it to someone besides yourselves."
"Harry knows," she fired back, starting to grow flustered. What business of this was his?
"And who else?" he replied, a smirk toying at the corners of his mouth.
Quickly making the executive decision to leave Ginny out of it for now, she kept quiet. Her silence was enough of an answer for him, and he brought his arms to rest behind his head victoriously. "I'll take that as my answer. Don't worry, Granger, I won't make you say it," he teased, but she could tell it was in good nature.
He rose to leave, his curiosity evidently sated.
"Zabini," she said quickly. "What was the point?"
"The point?" he asked. "I needed to know if you're ready to face the fire when all this comes to light. I know you two have a knack for sticking to the shadows, but that may not be enough for him – and I would bet that that'll happen sooner rather than later." He gathered his books and stood up. He started to hesitate before adding, "And I'd really hate to see you – either of you – get burned." He turned around, making to leave after dropping that ominous goodbye.
Could he read minds or something? She stared at his back as he walked away, trying not to think too hard about what he'd said.
-
For once, Draco felt... numb.
There was nothing going on in his head besides the same one thought: Granger was his.
And it meant that he was one step closer to succeeding. He was leading her to – what? Death? Slavery? Darkness? She had no idea, and he was going to lose her in every way that mattered.
Granger was the only person who could have helped him, but he was certain that once she figured out what his game was, she would turn her back on him for good. And he wouldn't – couldn't – blame her at all. If he were in her shoes, there would most likely be murder, maybe torture depending on the severity of the transgression.
Fucking hell.
He was setting himself up to die a slow, lonely death. He couldn't – wouldn't – lead her into it. Couldn't sacrifice her like that, refused to. There was nothing he could do to stop it, and he wasn't smart or conniving enough to deceive the Dark Lord to that extent.
Alone. Alone. Alone.
Stuck in his own hell, no one to get him out. No one to rescue him, to fix him, to solve his problem. No one would want to, not after what he'd done, what he'd have to do.
How could he get both Granger and his mother out of this?
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
But now it begged the question: if it were necessary, could he hand her over? Could he put his shields up enough, shove her so deep inside his skies that she became her own star in his constellation, that he could hate her again?
No. His answer lashed like a whip, striking him so hard he actually flinched.
No, he couldn't. He couldn't pretend like he hated her anymore, like his hatred had ever been justified in the first place. She really always had been the Brightest Witch of Her Age, as much as he hated the swotty title, and she couldn't have done that if she hadn't deserved her magic in the first place.
Lies, lies, lies. All lies, all wrong, all false.
What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?
Nothing, he could do nothing. Would do nothing, like the coward he was. A coward who had set himself up for failure time and time again, had no one to lean on – besides, ironically, the witch he was supposed to lure into a trap – no one to get him out of this mess.
His mess. His failure. His loss.
Either way, he failed. Either he lost her, or he lost his mother, or he lost himself. He couldn't decide which was worse.
Hot tears were trapped, pressed up against the thick darkness of his eyelids. Balling his hands into tight fists, he pressed the heel of his hands up to his eyes, trying to fight them back.
He felt like he was drowning again, gasping for air. His lungs were tight and hot and he thought somewhere in the back of his mind that maybe, just maybe, he was dying. Although, would that really be so bad?
Simply unable to care that he hadn't silenced his bed, he brought his feet up under him and balled himself up so he could rock back and forth while stretching painfully, reaching, begging for breath that wouldn't come.
It was in this state that Theo and Blaise found him. Draco had no idea how long he had been there – time meant nothing in those moments. It felt like everything was happening in the same moment – the sun could have risen and set, the tides rising and lowering, the moon cycling through every phase at once – and he couldn't process any of it.
He barely noticed the hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles as his forehead dug into his knees.
The words left his mouth unbidden. "I can't do this," he choked out. "I can't. I can't. I can't." It continued to tumble from his mouth like a mantra, and he was unable to stop it or control it.
The worst part? He didn't know what had caused this, what had triggered it, or where it had come from. It was like he was finally being suffocated by the weight of his choices – the ones he had known were wrong when he'd chosen them. And now? They were greedy, taking what they wanted from him – what he'd failed to give them. What he'd purposely tried to hide, keep away from them.
Merlin knew how long it had taken before he'd come back down. The hand on his back was Blaise's, and Theo's wand was pointed at him, and the buzz of magic felt like a simple diagnostic charm.
"His heart rate seems to have lowered a bit," Theo murmured. "I was getting worried there for a moment."
"Me too," Blaise said lowly. "I thought we were going to have to get a calming draught from the infirmary." His hand kept moving as his words paused, hesitating. "Still might."
"Draco? Can you hear me?" Theo asked.
A noise rose from the back of his throat, somewhere between a grunt and a groan.
"Aguamenti," Theo said after he'd conjured a glass. "Drink," he urged, pressing it gently into Draco's hands. "Come on," he pleaded, "you need this."
With a heavy head and shaky hands, he forced himself to take the glass and lift his head from his knees. His eyelids felt like rocks, and he had to fight hard to keep them from falling shut again.
"Breathe, Draco. In," Blaise inhaled, prompting Draco to mimic him, "and out," he exhaled slowly. Repeating that for a few moments, he then asked, "What are five things you can see?"
"Bed," Draco mumbled, "you, Theo, cup, floor, bedding." His grip tightened around the cup so hard his knuckles turned white.
"Good," he praised in a soothing voice. "Now, what are four things you can hear?" Blaise took him through the exercise slowly, counting down through touch, smell, and taste. He knew it was a grounding exercise – how Blaise knew it, he didn't know – and gods, in that moment was he thankful for it.
When they tried, his friends had good heads on their shoulders.
Once he'd somewhat regained his head, Blaise prompted softly, tentatively: "You can't what?"
Seizing up, his body tensed as he tried to think of a plausible answer that they would buy. Deep down, he knew that his friends knew something was up. He wouldn't have ever willingly associated with Granger before this year – before he was under orders – he'd never been so out of touch with himself or his friends, and he'd never been so timid.
It was hoping against hope that they wouldn't have noticed.
Some part of him was relieved that they had cared enough to notice. Part of him wanted nothing more than to spill his guts, to tell them everything and then some. But there was no part of him that wanted to drag them into this... this warped hell that he was in. He may have been suffering, but at least he was doing it alone.
As if they could read his mind, Theo's hand met his shoulder and said, "Mate, no matter what you're going through – and we know it's some shit – you don't have to do it alone. We can help you – get you out, get you help, anything." Theo's eyes implored him, almost begged him to speak. They wanted to help.
They were diving down into his hole where no light could touch him – hadn't seen it in ages. He was entrenched in darkness, bathed in it. He had grown so accustomed to it, he'd learned how to swim in it – or so he'd thought. Until his friends had extended a hand, showed him that he didn't have to be alone, didn't have to fight by himself.
Draco looked up, looked at his two brothers. Saw how distraught they looked. Realizing what he must look like right now, what they'd been seeing lately, how long this had been brewing. And how he was running out of time and had no other options.
Then the dam that had been so desperate to snap finally broke, and he slowly rolled up his left sleeve and started to talk.