Lover of the Light

Chapter Fifteen: The Fall

He was fucked.

Not only had he been a continuous destructive force, not only was he losing his mind, but he had gone and let her in. Her, out of all bloody people.

And that just wasn't the problem—Merlin, if only that'd been it. No. The problem was also that she willingly let herself be dragged into his life. It was like she was waiting for it. It was like she saw him withering; losing himself, losing his sanity, losing his time and anything else that mattered and was vital for him. It was like she was waiting for the perfect moment until he hit and spiraled completely down into rock bottom in order to be his only source of light in the obscure hole. He didn't understand why that was, why she wanted to be a part of his messed up life, he just knew that she was.

'Why are you here?'

'I...I don't know.'

How was it that he even started looking for her willingly? He'd spent weeks trying to avoid her and that piercing gaze. He couldn't escape it. He hadn't wanted it, but yet it always found him and he found that he couldn't look away. Why the hell was that?

He should've put a stop to it early in its roots. He had the power to do so, she hadn't yet bewitched him then, but that was also a part of the problem, wasn't it? He didn't stop her. He let her become a part of his day little by little, centimeter by centimeter, minute by minute. And no one knew. No one knew that she snuck in; making it harder to fight her off.

'I...erm...I'll just go—'

'No!'

Maybe a part of him didn't mind.

There was something about her. There was something about the feel of her that made him feel like he was being understood. It was like his crazy sensed her crazy. He hadn't been scouting for anyone with the same problems, he stuck to himself and his shades of grief and sorrow, but there she was, appearing out of nowhere, always uninvited, and she was just as filled with as much sorrow as he was. She matched him in scars, pain, and fallen tears.

She'd just been better at hiding it.

'Just...Just stay. Don't go.'

'...Why?'

'I'm scared.'

He didn't know how someone with her kind of pain could keep up a perfect facade in front of the world. She was sneers, indifference, and teasing laughter on a daily basis that one just assumed that even through a war she didn't lose the bitchy-side of her personality. She managed to keep her head held up high, fighting away any rumours that anything was wrong with her life. She was the master of disguise, of faked expressions and false statements.

Let it be known that he admired that. And that was more of a surprise than her actually succeeding in hiding all those fears she carried over her shoulders like an invisible weight. After all, no one does lying and scheming better than a Slytherin.

'What can you possibly be scared of?'

'This house.'

'This house?'

'And its silence.'

She was fucked.

She was fucked but she wasn't as bothered by that fact like he was. Like he established to himself already, it was like she was waiting for him. It was like she thrived on how insane he'd gotten, how much he yelled, how much he kicked, and how much he lost control. Her eyes would just glitter when she saw him; he always saw it and she never tried to hide it when she thought he needed to see it.

His pain was a link. He didn't know how it was therapeutic for her, just that it was. She wasn't all for trying to cure him or trying to calm his rages. She wanted him to let them out, she wanted him to scream at the top of his lungs, punch with all his strength, and hate with all the blood inside of his body. And the more he did so, the more her eyes sparkled and the more she looked triumphant.

Strangely, that helped him. He was becoming better. He was feeling better, smiling truthfully, laughing from deep in his chest, making jokes, being mocking, hanging with the blokes, slinging his arm around Ginny's shoulder, shoving Harry playfully—she did all that. She was making him better.

'Fine. I'll stay.'

'...Promise?'

'Yeah...I'll stay until you need me to.'

'Do you mean that?'

'I think so...'

Her, him—they were both equally as fucked.

He hadn't wanted to let her in, but he did so anyway. She appeared to want to let him in, and she exposed her most vulnerable side to him. They both bared their souls, their anger, their grief, and their insanity. He let her make him better by default and she told him a secret that she really should've kept to herself.

Both cared now. Both cared and they were fucked because neither of them knew exactly how much they cared for one another. And that was to be feared. That was to be extremely feared by two people that shouldn't care for each other, by two people that were polar opposites, and by people who had history to walk away from people.

Ehem.

The string of equations in his book weren't making sense, hadn't for a while now, so he decided to look up at the person who had intruded on his thoughts and poor studying skills by a clearing of their throat.

Blue eyes found blue eyes.

Fuck him, indeed.

"What?"

She frowned at his grunt. "You weren't at breakfast today."

He narrowed his eyes, trying his hardest to mimic that indifference that came so easily to her. For Godric's sake, he just wanted to push her away. He just wanted her gone. Was that too bloody much to ask for? "I don't owe you explanations of my whereabouts."

She smirked that taunting smirk. Her eyes, for a millisecond, looked thoroughly annoyed, offended, upset—but then they were as neutral as the water in a pool. "I'm not interest in your whereabouts, Weasley." She outstretched a white hand to him. "My mail, if you please."

Right. This was the reason why he didn't try to pretend like he was the master of aloofness when he knew perfectly well that he could never keep his poker-face on. He always ended up making a fool of himself, he should've seen that coming.

He cleared his throat, turning to his open schoolbag on the chair next to him. He reached in, shoved aside crumpled papers—all possibly notes, homework and that essay he needed to turn in tomorrow—until he found a neat stack of correspondence. Seeing as he got thoroughly embarrassed, he chucked the mail on the surface of his library table with a lack of tact.

"There you are," grunted Ron without bothering to look up at the witch before him. He instead pretended like he got the Arithmancy homework and started scribbling lines of numbers in no particular order on his parchment.

One, two, three seconds.

"It's just another month's worth of subscriptions."

One, two, three seconds.

Ron cursed in his head and glanced up again. That pale face, those blue eyes pretended not to be feeling anything, but her interior was surely peeling and slicing itself up all over again with the fear that was secretly constant in her. He wanted to tell her to shove off, but frankly, he mind as well just accept the fact that he's completely screwed and stop wasting time pretending that he wasn't.

He didn't say anything, just kept his gaze on her until she finally met it. She was expressionless as a mop, but by the clear look on his face, she took a seat right across from him. She sat tall, rigid, but her hand crumbled the constant Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, other fashion magazines, and rubbish mailings of promotional discounts.

They never mentioned the unmentionable. They pretended like their mutual secret had never happened, like they hadn't shared something, and both were just fine with that. She wasn't one for weak emotions and he wasn't one for accepting the fact that he actually shared something with her at all. He was Ron Weasley and she was Pansy Parkinson—nothing happened.

Sometimes, however...Sometimes it was hard not to use the fact that something indeed linked them. Sometimes they just needed the reassurance. And sometimes they allowed themselves to obtain that from one another with a long stare across the Great Hall, fleeting smiles in passing halls, or sitting together in classes while pretending there were no more available seats elsewhere.

But he was already staring at her, already sitting with her, and she still did not look reassured. He wasn't about to console her with words, how could he? Ron Weasley wasn't known to be eloquent with words, to ease his friends' pain with correct phrases—especially when Parkinson wasn't even his friend at all. How could he make things better, say the right thing, when he just began to acknowledge her as something more than Pug-Face Parkinson?

She was about to stand from the chair, but he stopped her. He stopped her by reaching across the table and placing his hand over hers. He was hesitant, frozen for a second, but then his fingers dipped beneath her palm and grasped her hand.

His hand was sweaty, he knew, and her hand was cold as ice. Typical, isn't it? He low class, mundane, and she unfeeling, cold like her galleons.

She clutched back. It wasn't timid or hesitant. She grasped his hand like if it were a lifeline; like his hold on her was what was keeping her at bay and not at the bottom of a treacherous ocean.

"—Look who we found!"

Ripping their fingers away from each other, losing the feel of stranger skin, Ron and Pansy were joined at his library table by his fellow Gryffindors. Harry and Ginny were grinning, their own hands clasped, giving that couple-y glow, while a brunette stood gloomily beside them.

"She was in her dormitory all this time, but luckily Parvati sold her out and we managed to drag her out."

Potter and the She-Weasel acted like they didn't see her—or maybe they did and just didn't care about her presence—and Pansy found that their acceptance or rejection didn't matter. What mattered to her in that moment was the inspecting gaze on the brunette's face and it roaming all over her and Weasley.

"Brilliant," breathed Ron after his sister's comments. "Well, sit down, then. Let's have a chat."

Nonchalant as always, Parkinson stood from the chair across from Ron and avoided eye-contact with him. Not that they needed any; what needed to be reassured had been reassured. Though, they both had to admit, that a new question arose from his little gesture and her clinginess.

Before the Slytherin witch turned fully around, Hermione daggered her eyes into her blue ones and searched, searched, searched. There was something, she knew it, she wouldn't be the Brightest Witch of her Age if she didn't see it. And as Parkinson fled quickly, forgetting to walk with any kind of poise, she gave herself away. Something had happened between her and Ron.

"Oh, come on!" Clearly not seeing the same thing she had, Ginny stepped away from her on-again boyfriend's side and tugged the brunette down to one of the empty chairs in her brother's table.

Hermione fell into the seat with a grunt. "Come on, what? I don't know what any of you are on about."

Ginny snorted loudly as she sat on Harry's lap from the lack of chairs available in the three-seat table. "You've been a downright wench these two weeks back at Hogwarts! Last time we checked, we left you perfectly fine with the Zabinis. You even got to see the Grangers! You were over the moon, 'Mione."

"I'm getting married, Ginny," quipped the brunette in an annoyed fashion. "There's nothing to be overjoyed about."

Knowing both girls' terrible, irritable temper, Ron decided to add his two sickles in before he and Harry witnessed a witch fight. "We're aware about that foul matter, Hermione. But it's more than that, isn't it?"

"We know you," Harry added in.

Hermione shoved both hands into her curls, her fingers clutching onto the roots. She bowed her head, looking away from her best friends for a moment, trying to just find something to calm herself with. But there was nothing, was there? Everything in her life was topsy-turvy. Merlin, nothing was right—nothing.

How'd she get to this point? How did her life become so bloody unstable? As Ron would say, she really did need to sort out her priorities. And quick.

"Mrs. Nott is a monster," she said through clenched teeth, still not looking up or untangling her fingers from her curls. "Deon and Allegra are prepared to hand her a small fortune so the betrothal can be terminated, but she refuses. She wants this wedding to happen. Not just that, she's a complete dictator and my future looks under her control at this rate."

All three Gryffindors stared sympathetically at her friend.

"Hermione, don't let that woman—"

"And I properly snogged the lights out of Malfoy."

That had stopped whatever Ginny was about to say, making her cough wildly.

One, two, three, four, five seconds later of thick silence with a bewildered tension, Hermione picked up her head once more and stared her friends. Harry looked thoroughly disgusted, slightly surprised that she said what she had; Ginny was trying to keep her surprise, but the redhead was tightening her lips to stop herself from laughing; and Ron...she wasn't expecting the emotions crossing his freckled features.

"Not only am I so confused as to why I kissed Malfoy, why he kissed me back, or why I fancied it, but Regina Nott caught us mid snog," Hermione further explained. "I thought she was going to hex Malfoy and I, but she simply stated that we were not allowed to see each other anymore for the rest of the holiday. Which was just fine with me at that mortifying moment, but Mrs. Nott wasn't finished. Theo was informed of my...indiscretion."

"Blimey," mumbled Harry.

Hermione nodded in understanding.

However, being the only ones not grasping the situation the way her or Harry were, the Weasley siblings decided to be completely unsympathetic to the situation. First, Ginny let go and started laughing; throwing her palms onto the surface of the table and leaning into it as her shoulders shook with her chuckles.

"You—snog—Malfoy!" She didn't bother to lower her voice as she lost her senses to her intense giggle-fit. Hermione frowned at her intently, but that didn't stir the redhead at all.

Her brother, on the other hand, wasn't laughing at all. In fact, Ron was showing quite the opposite emotions that his sister was. Instead of roaring with laughter or with anger, Hermione's best friend had a nothing expression. It wasn't Ron at all. There was no infuriated scowl, no angry flush on his cheeks, and no raging color turning his ears red. He simply looked at her with something she really hoped wasn't pity. She couldn't take pity from anyone at that point.

"So, you fancy Malfoy now?"

Ginny stopped laughing at her brother's question. Hermione and Harry exchanged a bewildered expression before the brunette turned to meet Ron's blue eyes. "I don't know."

"Why did you snog him, then?"

"I don't know."

"There's must be a reason."

Hermione was tempted to shove her fingers back into her hair and start pulling it all out with all the frustration inside her body building up. "There's just something about him," whispered the brunette as a hesitant response. "He's a git, of course he is, but...He's not. And even though I don't forget all the horrible things he's done, when we're together...when we talk, I don't see that Malfoy anymore. There's just something."

Harry looked more puzzled than ever before. His girlfriend, however, was nodding her head slowly; signaling to the brunette that she understood perfectly well what she'd meant.

Not really grasping the girl language entirely, Ron decided to just take the plunge and answer with what he thought it all meant. "Whatever it means, 'Mione, you know that—"

Ehem.

Not able to finish what he thought was going to be his very first good piece of advice, Ron and the other Gryffindors looked up to find the intruder of their moment. It was Theodore Nott.

"Hermione," he said in a flat voice, only looking at her, "mind if we talk?"

No. Absolutely not. There was no way in Merlin's green earth that Hermione wanted to speak to Theodore Nott. She'd been avoiding him for days now with obvious reason. And just because Harry and Ginny had managed to drag her out of her safe-haven, it didn't mean that she was going to—

"Sure," she answered silently.

The tension gone from bewildered to awkward, the three Gryffindors stood from the table, ready to depart. Before they did so, all three individually sent her a sympathizing smile. Ron squeezed her shoulder as he quickly gathered his belongings.

Nott took a seat and was not keen to postpone what was coming with small talk. "You can't avoid me forever."

"I can try," muttered the girl offhandedly, looking at the tabletop and a paper ball her friend had left behind.

The Slytherin sighed tiredly, not trying for once to be charming with her. She couldn't see it because she was being a coward, ashamed and all, but everything about him screamed exhaustion. He had shadows under his eyes, almost purple, and his dark eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep. His shoulders were tensed, jaw clenched, and palms into fists.

"Quit being so dramatic," he snapped at her, clearly out of patience. "So you snogged Malfoy; big fucking deal, Hermione."

Not even at his tactless, rude, and aggravated sentence did she look up. She kept her gaze off of his face, shoulders slouching, an echo of a grimace on her face. She honestly felt terrible; and, yes, even ashamed.

"That doesn't give you any motive to avoid me," continued Nott. "Though, what else did I expect from you? You are the Gryffindor Goody-Two-Shoes. I wouldn't doubt it for a second that you were, at a point, going to write me a foot-long parchment asking for forgiveness. But, Hermione—Look at me, Hermione!"

She cringed, but she slowly looked up. She'd be upset by his comment towards her loyal characteristic, but she knew he was completely right. She felt horrid for somehow betraying what lousy excuse of an engagement they had.

Noticing her sadness, Theo sighed again. It wasn't as tired as his previous one, but it was much more resigned. "I don't care," he murmured in a gentle voice just for her. "I don't care that you and Malfoy snogged. It doesn't matter."

"Your mother—"

"It matters to her, not to me," he interrupted her. "And...Bloody fuck, Hermione, it's just more complicated than a kiss, okay? I don't care, so stop feeling like you cheated on me. We're betrothed, not mutually, happily joined." He ran a hand into his hair, looking just as frustrated as she felt.

She hadn't wanted to so much as get a glimpse of the back of his head in the past two weeks, but Hermione found that at the particular moment she couldn't take her eyes off Theo. He'd lost some of his color, his glittering charm was gone, his back hunched over with the weight of his own thoughts and emotions, and those dark eyes were glistening. He was breaking. The tears welling in his sockets were proof of that.

Hermione scooted her chair closer to his, automatically taking one of his hands into hers. Her shame and embarrassment was long gone. She was worried, because no Slytherin ever broke down in front of a Gryffindor, because despite of the betrothal, Hermione liked to believe her and Nott were friends. And adding to the worry, she understood the tears and the pain he was letting her see.

"Theo," her voice was barely audible, "what is it?"

He didn't answer immediately. He at first sunk his top teeth to his bottom lip, hiding the quiver, but the hand she was holding clutched onto her fingers tightly. His shoulders shook a little, indicating a silent sob or one that was fighting to get out.

She didn't know why, but Hermione felt her heart break for him.

"I need to tell you something." His voice had been hoarse, and he locked his broken black eyes into her brown ones. He really was fighting hard to keep his tears from falling. "And when I do...Hermione, you have to promise me something."

Fear crawled coldly up her spine. "Okay."

A fragment of a tear managed to find its way out of his left tear-duct. It wasn't because of the chaotic tornado inside of him, but because of how naive she was. Comical, wasn't it? Brightest Witch of the Age: foolish. But he supposed that's what made her loveable in some ways. That, and her fierce loyalty and unnerving good heart.

"After I tell you what I need to," he was a little more composed for her, "you need to promise me that you're going to see this betrothal to the end."

                                                                             XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Two weeks and three nights.

Two bloody weeks and three bloody—scratch that; his watch read 12:07 am.

Two bloody weeks and four bloody nights.

That's how long it'd been since he last saw her. On the first two minutes of the first night, he hadn't minded it all. He'd been eager to not have her around, fast to escape, unwavering to leave his bedroom in Malfoy Manor when his parents insisted that he join them at Zabini Estate a night after the incident. He hadn't cared at all then because he was Draco Malfoy, and Draco Malfoy was good at dodging all emotions. It was his forte, what made him the proud sod he was. So when the first night turned into another, then that turned to another—he'd been perfectly fine not talking to her...

It made him a bloody coward actually, didn't it? When Mrs. Nott had ordered him to piss off from the patio after she caught him and her kiss—he just fled easily, okay. That's who he was. He ran fast when trouble came and never looked back to see if he'd lost a comrade. That's why he didn't bother to even give the Gryffindor Princess a second glance, so he didn't have to face the reality of what she must've been feeling then and there.

Bullocks. What had she even felt? What was she feeling now?

Bullocks again. It wasn't like he was going to find the answer to that anytime soon. It'd been two weeks and four nights since he last spoke with her, and he was sure after the third night back in school that she was avoiding him just as much as he was avoiding her.

Ironic, was it not? Both were complete cowards.

He didn't know exactly why he wanted to know how she felt. What happened didn't have to be mentioned, nothing had to be said, and he could easily continue ignoring her like he'd done at a point in his life...

What a load of rubbish. When had he ever been able to ignore her?

"Sulking about again, are you, Malfoy?"

Glancing up to the sound of the intrusive voice, Draco found Zabini walking through the entrance of the common room, the bricks weaving together behind him to hide the Slytherin lair. He had his robes hanging over his forearm, tie loosened, white button-up messily buttoned, and his trousers wrinkled—yet, he was smirking like he was wearing the best dragon-skin.

"Whoring about again, are you, Zabini?"

His smirk grew, white teeth glittering and contrasting with the dimness of the common room; Blaise laughed with great glee. "Ravenclaw tonight, mate," he said casually, heading his way towards the armchairs around the fireplace where the blonde sat by himself.

"No Hufflepuff?"

"Don't insult my tastes," retaliated Blaise in a carefree manner as he threw his school-robes on an empty table. "No, Malfoy, tonight was Cho Chang."

Draco raised a blonde brow. "Chang?" That was the least bit believable. "Chang doesn't put-out, Zabini. She's too busy crying at every bloody corner to give a bloke a second glance."

"Tried, have you?" Blaise laughed some more, throwing his legs up on the couch he had all to himself. "Well, mate, let me tell you that no one resists the Zabini charm. That doesn't mean that she wasn't a miserable cow the first few hours, but eventually she eased up and I put a lovely smile on her face."

The blonde looked unimpressed.

"Just because you don't get snogged anymore," snorted Blaise at his classmate's lack of appreciation of the fun night he just had. "When was the last time you actually had a girlfriend, Malfoy? Or even some lass to frolic around with? Maybe you should give Parkinson a try again. She's become a little more tolerable since Fourth Year."

Draco didn't say anything in return. Instead, he raised the cloak that was over his lap to pull out one of the small bottles of Firewhiskey he managed to sneak into the castle at the start of term. He wasn't about to get into any romantic or sex-related conversations with Zabini. Knowing the git well enough, however, he knew he was about to hear Blaise ramble on about the subjects anyway. Hence why the alcohol was required.

With a nonverbal, Blaise summoned the bottle to him. "Fine, it doesn't have to be Parkinson. How about Romilda Vane? She's a bit younger than us, but she'll work," he said, unstopping the bottle and making the Slytherin Prince glare at him. "I'm just saying, Malfoy. Every bloke needs a witch, someone to snog once in awhile." He stopped for a moment, taking a swing from the small bottle until the golden liquid hit the right spot inside of him. "And since you haven't snogged anyone—Oh, no, wait! You snogged my sister!"

Malfoy saw the bottle flying towards him before Blaise even decided to chuck it. Despite never being able to win Wonder Boy Potter at Quidditch, Draco still considered himself a great Seeker with his own share of skills. And because of those, he managed to catch the bottle of liquor before it smacked against his face and broke over his nose.

He didn't meet Zabini's eyes for the moment being. Instead, Draco put his mouth on the opening of the bottle and swung it back. The liquor burned down his throat, leaving a hot trail down its course, but he didn't flinch until it was all gone.

"Who told you?" He asked after a minute of letting his body settle the alcohol tainting his blood now.

Zabini's emerald gaze was narrowed and not resembling that smug prat that he'd become in the past year. He was currently a shiny reflection of that serious, angered, judging Slytherin boy that didn't think the floor underneath his feet was worthy to be there. "That doesn't matter, you tosser," he snapped. "Why the hell didn't you tell me you kissed my sister?"

Fuck him. He had only brought down one of the bottles from his dormitory because he thought he'd have a lonely common room to mull over those blasted thoughts that hadn't left him alone for the past two weeks. He wasn't drunk enough for this.

"What the hell do you think you're playing at, Malfoy?" If he'd allegedly just gotten off with Chang, Draco was having a hard time understanding why Zabini wasn't glittering with the satisfying afterglow and currently taking a nap to recharge his batteries. "Did you think that my sister's just some loose wench you can snog whenever you bloody want to just because she's there?"

Seriously, he wasn't drunk enough for this.

"I forgave you once for hurting her, you twat, but don't think for a second I'm going to let you make her your play-thing just so you can get—"

"I wouldn't do that to her!" He really needed more alcohol. The few ounces he previously took sizzled and magically left his system when his blood started bubbling with anger.

In his slur of accusing comments, Blaise had stood from the couch to be tall and intimidating, but at the blonde's comment, he lowered himself back to his seat. "Is that so?"

Unlike himself, Malfoy groaned loudly. "It's complicated," he said through gritted teeth. How the hell was he supposed to start explaining something to Zabini if he didn't know himself what any of it was about? He hadn't allowed himself to go that far into why the incident had occurred at all, and now he had to go there with Zabini?

It just wasn't his day at all.

Scratch that—nothing had been the same for two weeks and four nights now. And he knew perfectly well that it was all Granger's fault. She sunk her essence into him and shook everything out of its place.

"He fancies her—" Seeing as Malfoy was not destined to have the Slytherin common room all to himself, someone else entered it after descending from one of the gloomy hallways that led into the dormitories. "He fancies her quite a lot, actually."

If there ever was a moment in his lifetime when he was happy to see Pansy Parkinson, it was at that precise second. He was thoroughly annoyed that she appeared, of course, but what she was holding in her hands excused her for a moment from his anger.

Clearing her throat as her fellow Slytherins narrowed their gazes at her, Pansy walked a little closer to Malfoy's direction and handed him the bottle of Rum she had in her hold.

Blaise was not letting this go. Not even as Draco hurriedly ripped the cap off the bottle and drank from it in a haste. "Is that so, Malfoy? Do you fancy my sister?"

At the mock in the dark-skinned boy's comment, Pansy rolled her eyes. "Of course he does."

"I don't—"

"You do," Pansy insisted, looking down at Malfoy's silver eyes. "Don't look so appalled, Draco; you know I'm telling the truth. You know it's true. You're just not willing to admit it to yourself yet."

Draco glared at her, clutching the neck of her Rum bottle tightly. "I don't like the Bookworm, Parkinson. You out of all bloody people don't know anything, so piss off."

"So you just snogged my sister for the hell of it?"

At Zabini's interjection, Draco shook his head and went back into taking another large gulp of the alcohol in his possession. "I didn't mean that either—"

"Then what did you mean? Because what I got was that you don't like my sister, yet you went about kissing her like you could."

"Of course he kissed her like he could. He likes her. And when have we ever known Malfoy to not try and get what he wants?"

"My sister isn't a thing to be won, Parkinson."

"In this case she is, Blaise. It's Malfoy versus Malfoy to see whether or not he's up to kissing her again. Maybe to get something more than that."

"More than—You want more from my sister, you slimy git? You're not going anywhere near Hermione!"

"Jealous, Zabini? My, who knew you had the protective gene in you?"

"Piss off, Parkinson. This is my sister. I'm not going to let Malfoy ruin her—"

"For fuck sakes!" Not being able to handle the back and forth toss of words between Zabini and Parkinson, Draco finally snapped. He stood from his armchair, glowering with all his might. "I'm not trying to do anything! I don't even know what the hell's going on!"

Blaise and Pansy zipped their lips and watched as the Slytherin Prince turned pink from the alcohol and his frustration.

"Blame your sister, not me." Draco turned his hardened gaze at Zabini for the moment. "She came into my life and just messed everything up. I didn't ask for anything, I didn't want her friendship or—she's just in my head all the time! That's her doing, not mine!"

"Her doing?" Blaise snorted. "You were constantly in her bedroom looking to be chummy with her. Or are you telling me that she forced you to sit with her to read books, take strolls through the gardens, or talk for hours when I insisted on a game of Quidditch when you were over?"

The blonde swallowed roughly.

As silence grew thick like webs between the three Slytherins, especially tangling around Malfoy and his frazzled silver eyes, another Slytherin made his way into the common room. He'd been hearing the conversation by the entrance of the room, undetected by the others as he hid in the shadows after he snuck his way in. He had considered just to cast a quick Disillusionment Charm to make it to his dormitory without dealing with them, but what he heard was interesting. Not just interesting, though—vital.

Clearing his throat, Theodore Nott made himself visible to his classmates and once friends. An automatic, loathing expression took up Zabini's expression, Parkinson looked annoyed, not exactly at Nott, but at the situation, and the blonde clenched his jaw at the sight of him.

"I keep expecting for you to not show up anymore, but here you are." Blaise curled his lip in disgust. "Reminding me that filth is filth and you're never going to go away on your own."

Huffing, Pansy marched over to Blaise and grasped one of his arms; lifting him up from his seat. "Let's go, Zabini. We're done for the night."

Zabini growled, but let himself be taken and directed to the halls by the witch. "Why are you not in your sleep-wear, Parkinson? Were you going to take a little detour past curfew yourself? Maybe have your own make-out session with some poor sod?"

Whatever Pansy answered Blaise, Theo nor Draco heard it. Both just continued to stare at one another, a miscommunication between them that neither of them knew fully well of. Despite that, there was still a common emotion among them: resentment. Neither really knew how they got to that point, resenting each other and treating each other like they were complete strangers. There was a time in past school years that Draco could've considered Theo a friend—a better one than Blaise had been to him back then—and there was a time when Theo fit in the throng of respected Slytherins and went anywhere Draco went.

But that was then, and the now was right at that moment. And because there was a weighing pressure on Theo's shoulders, something that was causing friction in Draco's own life that he yet refused to acknowledge, there was no time to walk around on eggshells.

"Stay away from Hermione."

Malfoy's immediate response was to scoff. "You don't get to decide that." And why he chose to retaliate with that was beyond him, but he felt like it was suited. "Nor you or your mother get any say on my friendship with Granger."

The dark-haired Slytherin walked steadier to the blonde, no bemused expression on his face. Alike Blaise had done priorly, Draco saw the seriousness and determination in Nott's face; contrasting to whom they'd evolved to in the past year. "You don't want friendship from her," Theo's words came out flat. "Perhaps you did at the start of it, but you don't now. You're too stubborn to realize that, however; and I'm not going to stand idly by when you finally do see it."

Aggressively, Draco drank more of the bottle Pansy had left behind. His blood was boiling again, still with anger, but with lots more of it.

Where did Nott come off trying to order him about? He was Draco Malfoy, for fuck sakes, and he wasn't going to give something up that was his so easily to somebody else because they demanded it. He wasn't good with sharing. And, yeah, maybe the git was right, maybe he hadn't wanted friendship from Granger, but eventually he did. And it was his now. She was a part of his life, by Fate's smarmy decision, and Nott had no power to withdraw that.

"You got away with kissing her once, Malfoy, but you're not going to be so lucky next time."

"I wasn't planning to kiss her again," hissed the blonde. "And even if I was, you don't get a say in it."

Theo eyed Malfoy carefully. "You're right, I don't. But our marriage contract does. The closer the wedding date approaches, the magic intensifies and binds us. Try snogging her once more, Malfoy, and see where that leaves her. The loyalty clause in the contract will surely leave her writhing with pain before you can even enjoy it."

The image of Granger shrieking with pain was enough to make him drink more of the Rum. It was his personal nightmare, the brunette suffering before him and him having no power to make any of it go away. And perhaps knowing that and using it for his advantage, Nott had won the first round.

Gritting his teeth, trying to subdue the memory of not only Bellatrix Lestrange torturing the Gryffindor Princess before him, but her getting hit by the Sectumsempra curse by the attackers that were still on the loose, Draco decided to take the bottle back to his dormitory and get so pissed that he'd require three Sobering Potions by breakfast.

"She's marrying me, Malfoy—" Halting his path to the dormitories, Nott made Draco turn back around to face him. Having his attention again, Theo raised his left hand and waited for the blonde's eyes to focus on the speck of glimmer his ring finger was giving. "Betrothal at first, but she's fully accepted me now. So stay away from my fiancee."

His lips tightened into a hard line, back going rigid as Nott passed him and headed in the direction he'd been intending to previously. And once he heard his footsteps sound further away, echoing down to his own dormitory, Draco turned in a haughty fashion and launched the bottle of Rum to one of the walls of the common room. It shattered against it with a rough impact, making the portrait near fall down and crash onto the floor with the liquid smearing down the wall.

He gave her a ring. Nott had given Granger a fucking engagement ring. That sort of thing did not happen in betrothals—unless the two participants in the contract were fully willing and devoted to getting married. Engagement rings meant acceptance. Granger had accepted Nott.

Thinking that Granger was off with a glittering ring on her finger made him realize that the search he and the Zabinis were doing to end her betrothal was useless. Absolutely fucking useless. And the most enraging thing about that was that Draco cared. Draco actually fucking cared that the Gryffindor Princess had accepted the betrothal completely and no longer intended to fight it.

Maybe those around him had been right. Maybe he did want something more than friendship from Granger. And maybe, right there and then, he hated her for planting a seed of her essence inside of him without permission. She was growing and growing in between his bones and organs, hijacking his body and mind.

Sod it, he needed more alcohol for that revelation.