Caelum Ignis Ch32: "Pointless"
A Dramione fan fiction
Draco felt the blood drain from his face, the longer he read. He reread the first paragraph of the first book she handed him twice. He read it a third time. He moved on to the next section she’d marked, then the next. Then the next.
He didn’t say anything as he read.
He was going to be sick.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He’d known there was something.
Godric damn it… she’d known, too.
He’d done his own research, way back at the beginning of the year. He’d known there was some chance, some possibility of what it meant, but he’d blocked it out. He told himself there was nothing he could do about it anyway, that he’d find some way to help her later, when they were out of this mess, when the Order moved them, or whatever Dumbledore had in mind once the Dark Lord made his move on Hogwarts or the Ministry or both.
But he’d known.
Fuck, he’d known.
Maybe he’d even known years ago, back when he first laid eyes on her, when he’d first seen her magic, and somehow been half-obsessed with it and her after a five minute interaction on the train. He’d seen all that wild, sparking power, and he’d known something dangerous lived there, either in her or in him or between them. Even as a child he’d known there was something there he should probably stay away from.
Something he couldn’t have.
Something he couldn’t seem to stop wanting anyway.
He didn’t look at her as he read every section she’d marked in that first book.
He read through every section she’d marked in the second book next.
There wasn’t a lot of wiggle room.
There were no competing theories, no other possible explanations for how some wizards with his condition survived and some didn’t.
Clearly Dumbledore believed it.
Hermione didn’t say anything while he went through those first three books. He knew he probably looked like a maniac. He was probably pale as a ghost, with an expression on his face signaling he was halfway between an anxiety attack and passing out cold. She continued to pretend to read her own book, her eyes unmoving on the page in front of her.
He could feel her getting nervous, though.
It reminded him of when he’d read the first book about caelum ignis she’d given him. That day, as well, she’d been watching him while pretending not to, shifting periodically in her seat, darting him glances as she tried to control her magic.
She’d gotten a lot better at controlling her magic since then.
It was harder for him to read her as a result, now that she was so much better. Occasionally, when she was particularly anxious, like now, he’d see the animals she used for occlumency darting around in her magic, the ones she used to compartmentalize her thoughts and memories, but he couldn’t see the thoughts themselves.
He saw a dragon now, swimming through her light.
He saw a whisper of a phoenix.
He saw an odd pair of beavers wearing little his and her hats, which might have struck him as adorable and funny on a different day, but somehow upset him even more now.
Hadn’t she told him she used beavers for her parents?
Was she worried her parents would be upset about this?
The thought made that sick feeling in his gut exponentially worse.
She sat on the opposite end of the couch, her feet tucked under her bum, a different book opened in her lap. The book she pretended to read was a leather-bound doorstop so large it dwarfed her thighs. He had his doubts she’d read past that one page since she’d started getting antsy at his silence. Her glances got longer when the silence stretched, and now he could see her brow furrowed in worry. Her dark eyes paused to study him for real, her bow-like mouth pursed as she tried to make sense of what she saw in his face.
Her anxiousness was making his own anxiousness worse.
Her worry for him was making his worry for her worse.
She didn’t say anything, though.
Neither did he.
But he didn’t speak because he fucking couldn’t, could barely breathe, could barely stand to look at her, whereas she was probably trying to be considerate. She was probably letting him come to her. From the worry he could see in her magical aura and her eyes, she was obviously letting him react and hyperventilate on his own before inserting herself into his inner monologue. She clearly didn’t want to interrupt his panic attack until he initiated something marginally approaching a conversation.
But what the fuck was he supposed to say to her?
Was he supposed to read all this shit about Konstantin and Antonia Petrov, recognize what a selfish prick he was, and tell her he had to break up with her? That they couldn’t sleep together again? That he had to move out of their shared room?
Or was he supposed to tell her the truth?
Was he supposed to grin at her like a jackass, shrug his shoulders, throw a smarmy arm around her, and say something asinine like, shit honey, it’s too fucking late. Oh, and by the way, you’re a goddamned Malfoy now?
The thought of doing or saying or trying to explain any of those things made him feel like he was going to throw up.
She’d read this before she slept with him.
He’d asked her if she was okay with them shagging.
He’d fucking asked her.
Godric damn it, had she known it was already too late?
Shouldn’t she have said something about it, anyway? Or had she decided she might as well embrace the inevitability of it all, succumb to what happened to her like any other natural fucking disaster that wiped away most of her life? Was she still lying to herself that there’d be a way out, if and when she changed her mind about him?
The bile came up for real that time.
He staggered up off the couch.
He pushed past the alarmed look that rose to her eyes as he half-ran, half-stumbled into the washroom. He barely got the lid up on the toilet before he was throwing up the breakfast they’d shared a few hours earlier.
Omelet. Toast. Oatmeal. Fruit. Tea. Fried potatoes. Bacon.
Godric, it smelled bad.
He grimaced, but his stomach heaved again. And again. He emptied himself of pretty much all of it, until he was down to nothing but bitter, bright-orange bile.
He leaned his head against his arm and groaned.
Fuck. He was such a piece of shit.
Why hadn’t he read the damned books weeks ago? It was months now, since they first got the list from Dumbledore. He’d known there was a risk with her. He’d known there was something strange there, all the way back at the end of last year. He’d known, and he’d stopped reading once he’d read the bare bones about his condition.
Would it have fucking mattered?
Or had he ruined her life before he even had a name for what he was?
He heard a faint noise by the door and turned his head. He realized only then that he’d left it open in his haste to not empty his guts on the tile floor.
She stood by the doorjamb, arms folded in that giant, fuzzy, green sweater of hers, her face deathly pale. She wore only socks on her feet, and those dark leggings, and her hair was a curly mess that cascaded down and around her shoulders.
She looked like she didn’t know what to do with him. She looked like she didn’t know if she should walk out and leave him alone, close the washroom door, leave their shared apartment, or approach him to help in some way.
She swallowed when she saw him looking at her.
She wrapped her arms more tightly around her torso, her eyes too bright.
He couldn’t look at her with her eyes like that.
Even so, he felt them follow him as he looked away, as he climbed to his feet, as he flushed the toilet and walked over to the sink, now feeling light-headed. He washed his hands with soap, cast a few wandless charms to clean his teeth and mouth, then splashed more cold water on his face.
Fuck.
He still felt sick.
He leaned his weight on his hands on the sink and turned to look at her.
He mostly felt embarrassed now.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Her face went from deathly pale to pinkish-red. She opened her mouth, then closed it. He could practically see her fighting to decide what to say. Or maybe she was still trying to decide whether to speak at all, or if she should leave him alone, or wait for him to say whatever he meant to say, or try to explain to both of them why it was all okay. He could practically see the defeat on her. He didn’t need legilimency to see the absolute devastation there.
Godric. He’d fucking destroyed her.
He’d ruined her life.
If the muggle hell truly existed, he was definitely going there.
“It’s not your fault.” She swallowed, her voice shaky. “Draco, it’s mine. It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t––”
“What?” he growled, cutting her off. “No. Fuck no.”
He was already shaking his head. He shook it again.
“No.” He fought to control his voice. “No, Hermione. Nothing about this is your fault.” He swallowed. “…Granger. I, this…” He struggled to find words. “This is my fault. I went to you. I asked you to help me with my magic. I think I knew, even then, that I could grow dependent on that. I just didn’t fucking care––”
“Draco! Stop!” Her voice came out sharp.
He turned to stare at her, and she paled.
She swallowed, then subdued her words.
“I read about this the day Dumbledore sent us the books. I should have told you. Right away. At the very least, I should have said something as soon as you woke up this morning. If you’d known, you could have made a different choice…”
He blinked, confused by her words, but more so by what he saw in her eyes.
“I wasn’t trying to…” she continued, her hands shaking as she tugged some of her errant curls behind her ear. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” she said, a little stronger. “I honestly… Godric, I know this will sound like complete rubbish, but I swear to Salazar, I didn’t even think of it when I first woke up with you. Maybe I was too distracted by you being healed, or I was too tired, or too mentally wrung out, or too…”
She faltered, then swallowed, hard.
“I forgot all about what I read.” She squeezed her arms around her torso. “I thought of it after, but it was too late. We’d already…” Her face paled more. “I wasn’t trying to trap you,” she insisted. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I know that’s probably sounds pathetic now, but it’s the truth. I’m not saying it makes anything better, but I really didn’t mean…”
She trailed, shrugging helplessly.
He stared at her. His mind fought to make sense of her words.
She stared stubbornly forward, her jaw slightly clenched.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Please don’t tell me I shouldn’t be sorry. I know this is my fault. I know it. I just wanted you to know…” She swallowed again, and now tears were running down her cheeks. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I know that’s no excuse, and I know it doesn’t fix anything, but I swear to you, I didn’t mean––”
He let out a disbelieving, barking laugh.
His own eyes stung.
“Salazar’s Hair, Hermione. You really don’t know, do you?” His jaw tightened. He swallowed, then made himself finish it. “Us having sex this morning didn’t do this. I did it. Don’t you see? I did this. We’ve been in this since I first shared my magic with you. It wasn’t this morning. It was Christmas. It was months ago, Hermione. Us fucking isn’t the thing that put you in this situation…”
She turned finally, and returned his stare.
She seemed to struggle to speak for a few seconds, then blinked.
“You can’t know that,” she said stubbornly. “You can’t. And even if I forgot this morning, I knew. I knew, and I didn’t tell you. You didn’t even get a choice, or––”
“No.” Draco shook his head. His voice sharpened. “No, Hermione.”
“What do you mean, no?” she demanded. “How could you possibly disagree with that? You have no idea when––”
“The fuck, I don’t!” he snapped.
She flinched, then opened her mouth, but he cut her off.
“Hermione, I do know. I know when my magic changed, and when it got dependent on yours. I even told you at the time, although I didn’t understand it then, so there’s no possible way you could have. I didn’t figure out the full meaning of it until later.”
His throat closed, but he made himself hold her gaze.
“ According to my father’s spell, our magic was bound on Christmas last.” He shook his head. “The spell Lucius cast wasn’t just a ‘virginity’ spell, although I think my father forgot that, at least when he cast it. It’s a consummation spell, Hermione. It’s primarily meant to confirm marriage, not just whether an individual has ever had sex. That’s why he was able to know from the spell when I’d last had sex…”
Draco’s hands gripped the porcelain sink.
“According to that spell,” he said with an effort. “You were bound to me as my wife. You have been since last year.”
She stared at him for a few seconds, no reaction on her face.
Then a profusion of emotions crowded into her complicated brown and gold eyes. Her jaw opened, worked silently, closed, then opened again.
“What?” she asked blankly.
Salazar, he was such an asshole. He was such an unbelievable, irredeemable, fucked-in-the-head asshole…
“Hermione…” He fought to think, to make his brain work like a normal human brain. “Hermione, fuck… I shouldn’t have said it like that. I should have talked to Dumbledore first, made sure I was even right about––”
“You’re not even sure if you’re right?” she demanded. Tears filled her eyes. “Why in Godric would you say that to me, if you don’t even know if it’s true?”
He exhaled, lowering his head in defeat. He still gripped the sink with both hands. He pushed himself off it now, and straightened. He measured her with his eyes, and felt that sickness in his gut worsen.
Now it was her who looked on the verge of passing out.
Not that he could fucking blame her.
Hey, surprise! You’re married at seventeen, without me ever asking or telling you a single gods-damned thing… oh, and I’ve sort of suspected that for weeks now, but I couldn’t figure out how to tell you… and I had no idea what marriage to ME really meant, given what I am, and now I’m worried it’s fucking permanent…
She stared at his face as he approached her cautiously at the door. Her jaw was clenched, her chin jutted, her eyes overly bright, her arms wrapped tightly around her torso. She was breathing too hard. He was going to give her a damned heart attack.
The gold and orange fire within her irises writhed.
She was overheating. Her magic was rising.
He could feel it between them, like a fiery, living cord.
“Hey.” He held up his hands, making his voice calm. “Hey, I’m sorry. Can I…?” He reached for her slowly, keeping his hands off her as he watched her face for permission. It took her a second to understand that he was asking, or maybe to understand what he was asking. She nodded, wiping her eyes with the side of her hand when the tears spilled over.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”
He gripped her arms.
He opened himself, and let his magic siphon off some of hers.
She sucked in a breath as her magic cooled, as he pulled some of it carefully out of her where he could feel it growing hot and dense.
And of course that same part of him had the most inappropriate reaction imaginable to the magical exchange. Fuck, it turned him on. He couldn’t go there; he absolutely couldn’t and he knew it, but it made his cock hard pretty much instantly. He definitely couldn’t let her see or feel that on him right now. He maybe shouldn’t even be doing this with her, given what they were talking about, but he knew he had to when he saw those flames brightening in her eyes, just like he’d seen them in Snape’s classroom before she smashed his window, and this morning, when he’d watched her scolding Dumbledore and Snape.
He’d reacted inappropriately those times, too.
That morning made him react the most, probably because her defense of him actually touched him. His heart hurt that time, not just his cock. He’d listened to her and watched her, and all he’d wanted was to wrap his arms around her and squeeze her into his chest. Salazar, no wonder he’d tried to fuck her pretty much the instant Snape and Dumbledore left.
“I’m sorry,” he said, once he felt her magic cool to normal levels. “I know we need to talk about this… really talk about it… and I didn’t mean to sound like I was wavering back and forth on what’s true. I really do think I’m right. I just think we should do this last thing to try and confirm it. I want to ask him. Dumbledore. Because a few things he’s said make me think he already knows.”
“You think he knows?” she asked, still wiping her eyes. “And he didn’t tell us?”
“I think he thought we’d read the books,” he admitted. “He seemed pretty shocked we hadn’t. He took them out of the Restricted Section for us… just to make sure at least one of us would read them right away.”
The fire had dimmed in her eyes, but other emotions warred there instead.
He saw the vulnerability in her and his chest constricted.
“You want Dumbledore to confirm that we’re… married…?” she asked blankly.
He winced. “I want to ask him if he thinks it’s possible,” he clarified. “Or even likely. I want to know what he thinks about my theory around that virginity spell my father did on me, and what he knows about magical bonds more generally. I’ve read a number of books since then, trying to make sense of it, but––”
“You’ve been reading… books?” She frowned. “About this? Since when?”
He exhaled another breath.
“Since my father cast that spell,” he admitted. “Since Christmas.”
“And from what you read, you think it means––”
“It’s the only explanation that makes any kind of sense.” He rubbed his eyes with his fingers, maybe in part to avoid watching her react to his words.
“…It explains the spell with my father. It explains how our magic behaves with one another.” His jaw hardened. “From what I read, a lot of so-called ‘virginity’ spells pick up on magical connections, not physical intercourse, per se. They originated as consummation spells, like I said, to formally ‘prove’ the legitimacy of a marriage. Something about our magic convinced the spell we were legitimately bonded, which in turn convinced my father I’d had sex with someone when that bond solidified.” He swallowed. “I’ve cast a few, somewhat more complicated spells on myself since that time. They all come back the same.”
“That you’re not a virgin?” she asked, frowning.
“Not exactly.” He took a breath. “I mean, yes, that too.”
He felt his throat try to close entirely.
He swallowed and forced himself to answer.
“They all say I’m married, Hermione. That I’m magically bonded to someone.” He watched her face, and that sickness returned to his gut when he saw the fear in her eyes. “I haven’t cast one today. Not since we… you know… actually shagged. But I highly doubt us having sex would make that bond go away…” He winced at her bewildered look. “…Or make it worse,” he added, feeling sick again. “I mean, married is married, right? So this isn’t your fault, Hermione. If my theory is correct, we crossed that line months ago. Maybe even before Christmas morning, when I first shared magic with you in that empty classroom.”
His gut twisted more at the confused look in her eyes.
He could tell she was trying to keep up with this, to make sense of it, but she was struggling to hear him past the emotional impact.
“Salazar.” His throat closed. “I’m really sorry I told you like this. If I’d known the implications, I would have said something a fuck of a lot sooner, but I figured it was just some magical fluke, something we could fix at some point…”
He listened to the silence his words produced.
He could hear how delusional they sounded.
“But I need you to know,” he went on tautly. “You didn’t do this, Hermione. You didn’t trap me.” His jaw tensed more. “…I trapped you.”
“No.” She put her hands over her ears, shaking her head in frustration. They’d been going around and around with this for over an hour, ever since he threw up and first confessed his theory about Lucius’s spell to her. “No, stop. STOP. This is pointless, Draco.” She glared up at him, her eyes flashing with anger now. “Blaming yourself is just as insane as me doing the same! You didn’t know. Neither of us knew. It’s completely pointless for you to go round and round, beating yourself up about it!”
Draco’s jaw hardened.
“Dumbledore––” he began coldly.
“No,” she cut in at once. “No. That’s completely pointless, too. And how could we possibly know when he figured it out? Do you really think he knew we were married when we went to see him in that house?”
“Yes,” Draco said at once.
She bit her lip, which drew his eyes there.
After a pause, she shook her head.
“Well, it still doesn’t matter.” She folded her arms. “If you’re right about when it happened, then it was already too late by then, anyway,” she said reasonably.
“Maybe,” he conceded, a touch less hotly.
She gave him a frustrated look. “We need to move on from this, Draco.”
He stared back, incredulous. “Move on from it? How, exactly?”
“Not the marriage part,” she said, exhaling. “I mean the blame part. Does it even matter who did what when, anyway? Now, I mean? It’s too late, and anyway, I really don’t think it was anyone’s fault. Not either of ours. Not Dumbledore’s––”
“Maybe my father’s,” he muttered.
“Well, if so, he’s taking it rather well, wouldn’t you say?” she asked sarcastically.
He looked at her. Then, involuntarily, he grunted a laugh.
“Right,” he said.
For a few seconds, they only sat there.
She was right though, he thought.
It was completely pointless, trying to assign blame for this. Especially now.
Some masochistic part of him wanted to find someone to blame anyway.
He couldn’t help feeling responsible. She didn’t ask for this. She didn’t ask for any of it. And he couldn’t seem to stay the fuck away from her, even knowing how dangerous he was to her. He’d just been wrong about the real danger he posed. He’d been wrong by underestimating just how many ways he could hurt her, or get her killed.
“Ask him,” she urged. “You were going to ask him. Do it now. I don’t think I can wait until I talk to him tomorrow.”
“You think that’s why he wanted to talk to you?” Draco asked.
She threw up her hands. “Probably?”
He bit his tongue, but nodded. He agreed with her.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll do it.”
He concentrated, forming the patronus in his head, imparting the words he wanted it to speak, casting it so that it would only speak to Dumbledore, and only if he were alone.
We’ve hit a snag in our research, he imparted into the creature, letting his flat, deadpan sarcasm imbue his thoughts. It’s come to our attention we might already be married. It seems like a rather important detail to resolve before we proceed…
He paused, still thinking.
Exhaling in annoyance, he added, My father cast a spell on me last Christmas. He’d been attempting to determine whether or not I was a virgin. Draco felt his jaw harden, but more in anger than embarrassment. At the time, I thought I was, he continued flatly. But the spell told Lucius I wasn’t, and that I’d had sex that morning. I’d shared my magic with Hermione maybe an hour earlier. I think now that the spell reflected consummation. Can you verify?
He sent the dragon off.
It flashed out of his chest, flapped its blue-white wings, and disappeared through the wooden door.
He and Hermione had returned to the couch.
Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, they no longer sat on opposite sides of it, although he still wasn’t touching her, and certainly not as much as he wanted to be. They sat a few inches apart, and she sat cross-legged on the velvet padding, her mug of coffee clutched between both hands. The fire burned merrily in the grate, keeping out the early-spring chill, but he had to fight to keep from dragging her closer to him with his hands.
Neither of them spoke until a second patronus came winging back.
It returned in what felt like less than a minute.
Certainly less than five.
The blue-white bird beat its wings before it alighted on the opposite arm of the couch. It opened its mouth, and Dumbledore’s voice tumbled out at once.
“Yes,” he said simply. “I believe you are correct. I assume you have conducted your own spells to verify this already, but let me know if I am wrong in this.” The bird cleared its throat, which was odd to hear out of a magical being of light. “Have you verified at Grimmauld Place?” he asked next. “Have you checked any of the other magical records?”
Draco looked directly at the bird.
“Yes,” he said simply. “To the tapestry at Grimmauld, and the spells. I tested myself with various spells weeks ago. I verified Grimmauld yesterday morning.”
Hermione stiffened. He glanced at her, and saw understanding flicker in her eyes.
The phoenix nodded, then flew back towards the door and disappeared.
“So Dobby knows,” Hermione murmured.
Draco looked at her, and sighed. “Yes,” he said. “Dobby knows.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes showing her to be thinking.
“You might need to tell me more now,” she said, her voice a touch firmer. “Not just about this, I mean. We obviously need to resolve this first, and talk about this first, but then you need to tell me more, Draco.”
He bit his tongue as he studied her profile.
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll tell you anything, Hermione. You know that. I would have before, but I especially will now. What do you want to know?”
Her eyes sharpened when she shifted them off the fireplace. She aimed her gaze at him, and he saw a flicker of sadness there, mixed with a harder determination.
“About your childhood, Draco,” she said. “About Lucius.”
A sharp, throbbing pain rose sharply in his chest and gut.
Before he could force out words, or decide on what to say, the phoenix reappeared through the door. That time, it landed on the back of one of the stuffed armchairs by the fire.
“I’d meant to speak with Ms. Granger about this tomorrow,” the bird said in Dumbledore’s voice. “But perhaps it is best if I say a few things now, so that I can address them to you both. You should be able to speak to me through this… there might be some delay, but I have cast additional charms that should allow me to hear you. You may wish to listen without interruption first, so as not to unnecessarily slow down our communication.”
Draco and Hermione exchanged looks.
Draco again fought the impulse to reach for her, to grab her hand.
He sank his weight deeper into the couch instead, and returned his gaze to the phoenix. The enormous bird flapped its wings, resettled on its perch, then opened its mouth again.
“Remus and I surmised as much when we saw you at my summer house at the beginning of the year,” Dumbledore said, matter-of-fact. “What convinced me, in the end, was the lack of any location or other trace on your magic from your father, Draco. You seemed so certain your father would do that if he could, and I could find no reason why he wouldn’t have been able to, even with your magic maturing as it was. However, I believe when your magic combined with that of Ms. Granger, the change was too significant. It wiped out the trace.” His deep voice grew a touch more warning. “As I told you that night, however, I doubt that even combining magics with your… well, your partner… could do the same for the other, darker, blood magics your father conducted against you as a child. I would not assume those magical bonds have been broken, Draco. I think it would be highly dangerous to proceed as if they were.”
Draco’s throat tightened.
He knew what Dumbledore meant.
He still couldn’t hurt Lucius.
If he hurt his father badly enough, it would probably kill him.
If he killed Lucius outright, it definitely would.
“I think you are probably correct in assuming that this bond occurred when you first began leaning on Ms. Granger to help you manage your magic,” Dumbledore’s voice went on calmly. “I am perhaps overstepping here, but am I right in assuming you have ceased to have these ‘magical overloads,’ as Professor Snape calls them? Your godfather tells me they used to plague you nearly every week, that they’ve been a problem for you since you were very young, and that they’d been increasing both in intensity and frequency over time. The fact that you feel confident you no longer require his potions to manage these, when he tells me you used to be quite frantic about receiving them, and would often ask him to increase the dosages, leads me to believe you’ve been able to manage your magic quite well on your own since bonding with Ms. Granger’s magic. Is that a correct assumption?”
Draco swallowed. Fuck.
He glanced at Hermione, almost without meaning to.
He saw her mouth purse as she thought about Dumbledore’s words.
The old man was right. He hadn’t had those overloads.
They hadn’t just lessened. They’d stopped.
Even in that brief period where he’d been dating Ginny Weasley, he went longer than he’d gone in years without having one. He’d lasted weeks without any kind of problem, long enough for him to wonder about it at the time.
He’d known, somehow, that something had changed.
It wasn’t until Hermione really started to shut him out, to avoid him and sidestep him whenever she saw him, to burn his messages and walk out of every room he was in, to refuse to make eye-contact with him, and he’d felt her tangibly drawing away from him in every way, that he’d started to completely fucking panic––
He swallowed again, and rubbed his face with his hand.
“Yes,” he said numbly to the patronus, when he felt the bird waiting. “That’s true.”
There was a slight delay, then the phoenix nodded.
It was such a strange thing, seeing Dumbledore’s nod on the giant, blue-white bird.
“I understand this might be upsetting for both of you,” Dumbledore resumed calmly. “I admit, until this morning, I had thought you were both at least somewhat aware of it. If you want to ask me whether this… magical bond… is reversible, I think you both probably know the answer to that already. Even apart from the tapestry, which generally only records bonds that are recognized by pureblood families, meaning those requiring some irrevocable form of soul-bond, the fact of your condition makes any such bindings stronger than most, I would imagine. I suspect if you were to try to force a severance, there could be very dire consequences. I will continue to look for any resources you might consult to learn more, if you like, but I admit, I think this is likely a wasted pursuit, and probably not the best use of our time. You understand how soul bonds work, I imagine… you, at least, Mr. Malfoy. I could suggest resources for both of you to study, but the magic there is fairly straightforward. They are permanent, and irrevocable. They also considerably strengthen over time…”
He cleared his throat.
“…and with increased intimacy between the bonded pair.”
The silence in the room grew heavier.
Draco couldn’t bring himself to look at her at all now.
For the same reason, he jumped when she spoke.
“So are we…” She hesitated, and Draco felt her glance at him, before looking back at the bird. “Are we truly married, then?” she asked. “Legally, I mean? Not just technically, through some magical connection, but in the sense of a recognized bond? Would the marriage be found on the magical registries at the Ministry, for example? And at Gringotts? And…” She seemed to lose her words. “Well, wherever they appear magically, once a marriage becomes official?”
Again, there was a slight delay.
The phoenix ruffled its feathers.
“Yes,” it said simply.
Draco’s breath caught as the implications of that set in.
He immediately found himself shaking his head.
His words stuttered, got stuck in his throat.
“No,” he said. “No, that… that can’t be. My father. He would have…” He shook his head again. “No. If it was legal, they would have sent something. If only for the vaults. It would affect…” He glanced at Hermione, and saw that she’d gone white as a ghost. “…Inheritance,” he managed. “Bloodline. My father would have been notified. Wouldn’t he?”
There was another pause.
When Dumbledore’s voice rose next, it sounded grave.
“I do not know,” he said seriously. “I do not believe they would automatically send notification of a change from the Ministry… or from Gringotts… not unless such a thing was stipulated specifically. One would have to consult the records themselves.”
Dumbledore paused, and the words out of the phoenix grew thoughtful.
“The fact that you have not been granted access to your family vaults might actually aid you in this, Mr. Malfoy,” he continued slowly. “It is quite possible, since you cannot access the Black or Malfoy vaults yourself, there was no need to notify your wife, or either family’s head of household, of any new key-holders. That said, there are any number of ways your father could have discovered your altered situation, Mr. Malfoy.”
Draco felt his chest constrict more.
“Unfortunately,” Dumbledore continued gravely. “I believe it is wise for us to assume your father is aware of your marital status already…”
There was a long-feeling silence after the phoenix finally exploded into a million granules of blue and white light.
Draco sat on the couch, staring down at low table where his tea had gone stone cold.
Hermione gripped her coffee mug in both hands, but he hadn’t seen her take a sip of it for at least twenty minutes.
He glanced at her, and fought to decide what to do.
He wasn’t even trying to come up with some long-term, permanent fix of her circumstances anymore, not right now, at least. He was just looking to fix today, this tiny point in time. Just today. Just this afternoon. Just these next few hours.
They could read in here until dinner time came.
They could maybe convince themselves they were doing something that way.
They could try to talk.
Or they could go their separate ways, maybe each take a walk on a different part of the grounds, or wander around the school, or into their respective house common rooms. Nothing appealed to Draco less than the last thing for himself, but Hermione might feel differently. Maybe she would want friends around her now.
Potter, or Ginny maybe.
He wished he could fly her somewhere.
Somewhere warm.
Somewhere they could honestly forget about all of this for a few hours.
Before he’d signed off, Dumbledore gave them both as many assurances as he could. He told them Lucius would have great difficulty getting onto the Hogwarts grounds, that he, Dumbledore, intended to lock down the wards even more tightly over Easter break, and that Draco was already financially cut off, so nothing would change for him on that front. He reminded them that Draco still didn’t wear the Dark Mark, so he couldn’t be tracked, and as long as Lucius didn’t have custody of either of them, nothing had really changed.
Draco listened to all of this, and he knew Hermione did too, but he wasn’t sure how much of it he really believed.
The only genuinely reassuring thing was that Lucius doubtlessly thought Draco had no idea that he knew, and probably thought Draco didn’t know his own status himself, which meant Lucius was likely biding his time for the best way to use that information. It explained his father’s long silences, and why Lucius hadn’t appeared at the school the instant it came out that Draco would be sharing a room with Potter’s swotty muggleborn witch, or when Draco turned in Gregory Goyle to the aurors. It explained the uneasy feeling Draco carried with him since March began, this feeling that his father knew more than he pretended.
Easter break was in one week.
Hermione had been going back and forth about seeing her parents, but that question was settled now, too. She wouldn’t leave Hogwarts, not for any reason.
She couldn’t. Not until they left the castle together.
Another thought reached him.
“Have you spoken to your parents recently?” he blurted.
He felt her stiffen beside him.
She blinked, then looked down at her mug of tepid coffee. After the barest pause, she set it down on the table, two-handed, and tugged the sheet of long curls away from her face and over one shoulder as she sat back on the couch. Throughout all that time, the concentrated, thinking expression never left her face. By the time she’d re-settled in the velvet cushions, she’d turned her head to stare at him.
“Why are you asking about them?”
“Has Lupin moved them yet?” he asked. “Have you talked to Dumbledore about them since that night in the house?”
She paled.
“You think they should––”
“Yes,” Draco cut in, adamant. “Right now. Before Easter break. He’ll likely wait until then, in the hopes you would go home. He’ll move as soon as he’s sure.”
She paled more.
She shoved off the cushion then, and headed for the stairs.
Draco watched as she climbed up the stone steps, then he sent a second, quick patronus to Dumbledore.
Granger needs to talk to you, right now, if you can. She needs to relocate her parents. Before Easter. Send back word on your availability. As quickly as possible.
He sent it off without watching it go.
When she came back downstairs, wearing her shoes, Draco stood up from the couch.
“I told him you have to see him right away,” he said. “You should wait for the response. He might want to meet you somewhere other than his office.”
She blinked, staring at him like she couldn’t comprehend anything he’d said.
Then her face crumpled.
She walked up to him, and threw her arms around his waist. She hugged him tightly. She buried her face in his chest, her hands clenched hotly in his shirt. Something in him nearly sagged in relief. He hugged her in return, his hand in her hair. He kissed her face, rubbed her shoulder and neck, but didn’t speak.
They stood there like that until Dumbledore’s phoenix reappeared, and hovered near them in the air over the couch.
“Have her come right away,” the blue-white apparition said. “I’m in my office. I’ve cleared my afternoon so we can work through every detail.”
Hermione’s whole body went briefly limp.
Then she squeezed him, hard, and let him go of him entirely.
He watched her walk to the door, open it, and disappear.
He collapsed onto the couch. He rested his face in his hands and did nothing but breathe hard for a few seconds, his mind utterly blank as he stared at the floor.
Minutes later, he made up his mind.
He tromped upstairs to his own room.
He opened a drawer in the night table next to his bed, and took out the thing he’d been keeping in there ever since he changed rooms. He hadn’t even fully admitted to himself why he’d put it there, but some part of him wanted to believe it would make a difference, that it would keep her safe.
He put it back on, and immediately felt better.
Only this time, he’d changed fingers. Her charm re-sized the band to fit his ring finger instead of the index finger where he’d worn it before.
It felt right there.
It fucking belonged to him.
Minutes later, wearing dragon-skin boots and gripping his broom in one hand, he was out the door, too. Instead of heading deeper into the castle, he went out through the West Tower’s exit to reach the grounds. Using a binocular charm, he looked out over the field to the distant quidditch pitch; he saw a group of students fucking around over there on brooms, and immediately mounted his own.
They looked like a mixture of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, but he didn’t much care.
He’d either play, if they let him, or he’d fly over the lake and Forbidden Forest until he reached the protective edge of the school’s wards. Anything but sit in that room while Hermione and the Order tried to work out the best way to move her parents out of reach of his goddamned sociopathic father.
He ate in their room when he got back. He knew he did it mostly so he wouldn’t miss her, and so he could be sure there’d be food waiting for her when she got back.
At nine o’clock, she still hadn’t returned.
He managed to keep his own food down that time.
He’d been knackered and positively famished by then, having skipped lunch and thrown up his breakfast, not to mention having spent a good six hours flying. He’d joined the impromptu scrimmage on the pitch for a few hours, first playing seeker, and later one of the chasers for the primarily Ravenclaw team. He then spent another two hours flying around and over the lake, and the greenhouses, and the forest, and the fields. His hands were shaking by the end of it, but more from exhaustion than cold, and he eventually admitted defeat and headed back to the castle, and to the West Tower, and their rooms.
He’d just dragged himself out of a hot shower and flopped back down on the couch in muggle sweat pants and a worn, stretched-out, Falmouth Falcons shirt he’d gotten during a match he’d attended with Theo, Blaise, and Blaise’s mother in fourth year, when Dobby appeared with a tray loaded with supper.
Luckily, Dobby brought enough food for four full-grown wizards.
He tackled more of the books once he’d finished his supper.
By eleven o’clock, he closed the book he’d been working on, and went up to his room.
He’d already decided he’d leave her alone tonight. He couldn’t imagine she’d want anything but space from him, given everything, and now she had her parents to worry about, as well. He closed his door so she’d know he wouldn’t expect her.
Then he laid down in his dark room and stared up at the ceiling.
Despite how tired he was, sleep wouldn’t come.
He played with the snake ring in the dark, stroking it until it breathed fire, and sent a green glow over part of the bed. He felt her magic in it and swallowed, but he didn’t take it off. He’d only take it off again if she asked him to.
He didn’t fully admit to himself he was waiting up for her until he heard the door open downstairs. He tensed where he sat on his bed, leaned against a stack of pillows. He listened to her feet on the stairs as she ascended to the second floor.
He continued to listen as she retreated to her room, and when she came back out, presumably after changing her clothes, and went back downstairs. He heard the distant sounds of water and plumbing, then more footsteps on the stone steps.
He closed his eyes and listened, and pictured her there.
In his mind, she was tired, as exhausted as him.
He didn’t hear anything once she reached the top of the stairs. She must have gone to bed. He must have missed her closing her bedroom door.
His eyes were still closed when a soft knock came at his door.
He jerked in surprise. His eyes opened.
He stared at the closed door, his chest suddenly tight. He cleared his throat. His voice was so loud, she had to know he’d been awake.
“Come in,” he said.
She opened the door inward. He could see the silhouette of her curly, mane-like hair, and her small shoulders, and her pale hand on the door’s handle. The barest amount of firelight lit her profile from the still-burning downstairs hearth. A little more firelight lit her hand and arm from the front, from the dwindling flames in his own fireplace.
“Did you eat?” he asked softly. “I left you food.”
She seemed to think for a moment, then shook her head.
“I can’t eat now,” she said.
He watched her, waiting.
“Did you want to talk?” he asked.
She shook her head again.
She was watching his face openly now, and he bit his tongue.
“Can I sleep in here?” she asked.
Draco blinked. He stared at her, sure he misheard.
Then he moved swiftly to the side of his large bed.
He yanked back the duvet and the sheet, and the blanket, and looked up to see her watching him. He saw her take in his invitation with pursed lips, right before her shoulders sagged in what could only be relief. He didn’t speak until she’d begun to shut the door from inside his room.
“Leave it open a little,” he said. “Your demon cat will be offended, if you don’t.”
She glanced at him, surprised, then snorted.
She left the door open about a foot, then walked around his bed, and slid under the covers next to him. He didn’t have time to think about whether he should leave her alone, or even ask her what she wanted. He’d scarcely taken a breath when she was next to him. She leaned on him where he sat, and laid her head on his shoulder.
He wrapped his arms around her, and scooted carefully down until he was lying on his back. She shifted around a little once he got her there, until her head lay on his chest, her arm thrown around his ribs. Her leg on the same side wrapped around and between his.
She sank her weight into him for real.
He fought with the part of himself that wanted to apologize to her again.
Her eyes fell to his hand where he held her forearm. Her fingers reached out, and gently stroked the snake ring that now coiled around the ring finger of his left hand.
“I thought you’d lost it,” she murmured. “Or gave it away.”
He swallowed. He considered answering. He considered apologizing. He considered scoffing at her suggestion he gave away her gift, but he didn’t do that, either.
He knew she was right.
It was pointless, dwelling on fault, or even how it happened. It was too late.
There was no way either of them could have known.
The problem was, he knew himself.
He knew.
How many times had he told himself to stay away from her? How long had he known he would probably end up getting her killed? He’d gotten better at rationalizing his behavior as he got older. He’d gotten more sex-obsessed, and stupider, but he’d never not known.
He knew.
Given what he’d felt, all the fucked up things he’d decided over those months, all the years of wanting what he couldn’t have, there was pretty much zero chance he would have done anything differently, if he were faced with that decision again.
He wondered if Hermione knew.
He wondered if she had any idea what kind of prick she’d actually married.