In the Viper's Nest, Fourth Year

The room holds its breath, faces alight with scandalised glee, tittering, straining to hear Sirius and Lucius’s quietly snarled threats. Draco barely can hear their words. His eyes are pinned on Granger. She had appeared without warning, and his eyes had locked onto her, far across the library. Wearing red, like the rest of the partygoers—like his own blood-soaked robes—she pushes forward to see the spectacle at Draco’s table. 

But Draco can only see her; everything else fades into oblivion. 

Empty but for her, a deluge of deathly quiet overwhelms the room. All he can hear is the blood rushing to his head. 

She can’t be here. 

The day he quit Divination, he had seen her here, in his house—in the drawing room, on the floor, screaming in pain, covered in blood. He would be a fool to ignore the vision. Could it have been about today? He can’t let it come to pass. 

She can’t be here. Not at Malfoy Manor, not after Lucius proved himself morally bankrupt so egregiously this morning. He needs to get her out of here—out of the Manor, far away from the library, even further away still from the drawing room. If Draco can move quickly, then he can prevent that vision from manifesting. 

He is paralysed; the room spins. 

Across the room, she sinks through the floorboards. Mud is covering her, slicking back her hair and coating her throat. She slumps, trapped in a glass case, the dome of Madwoman’s crystal ball. Her hands come up, slippery with mud; she tries to keep from sinking into the earth. Muddy streaks mark desperate, unintelligible symbols on the glass, as her hands fall, as she falls, as she—the earth must take her, Son.

Lucius’s ominous chant fills the room, and she frowns at him now, golden brown eyes flickering behind the glassy dome that traps her. Her face screws up in hurt—or maybe anger—and she swims in his vision, and instead he sees her mother’s brilliant green eyes. He can feel the cold weight of the bone knife in his hands. Her eyes, blank and lifeless, flicker back to brown. She’s at the bottom of a crystal ball, swirling white mist suffocating her, as she screams for mercy. Someone is cursing her. Her blood is covering the drawing room floor.  

He’s killed her—like he killed her mother. 

Then Draco blinks, and she’s gone. The library snaps back into focus. The crowd swells with quiet chatter. Beside him, he can hear Lucius’s heavy breathing. 

Lucius was the one who struck that final, deathly blow to Granger’s mum, but Draco is guilty, all the same. He found her in the cellar, and he could have saved her. He could have gone for the aurors, or Dumbledore, or Snape, or McGonagall, or even Sybil fucking Trewlaney, the Madwoman. Any adult that was not his insane Death Eater parents could have helped. 

But he stupidly chose to trust his family, and Granger’s mum paid the price with her life. 

And he never even found out her name. 

Would Lucius actually have let her go if Draco had succeeded in crucio-ing Granger’s mum? Crabbe Sr. and Vince were already invited to the Manor for the Eidolon before he had finished trying to curse Granger’s mum. 

Maybe Lucius would have found a different muggle? There were plenty to choose from at Stonehenge. But, isn’t it rather convenient for Lucius that he abducted her a week ago, and within that time, threatened Draco with the Eidolon, setting in motion the series of events that culminated with her murder? 

That culminated with this bottomless feeling of misery and shame. 

Her last request echoes in his mind. Tell my daughter I love her. Tell her I didn’t want to leave. Tell her that I’m sorry. Slowly, the words sink into a pit in his stomach. 

How can he ever tell Granger, when he’d also have to tell her that he’d held the blade that killed her? That he’d watched Lucius rip her throat open? Her flesh, bloody and hanging open, her head, connected as if by a string of red tendon, her body, swallowed by the earth. 

How can he tell Granger that he had tried to crucio her mother, to save her, to pass Lucius’s twisted test? That he had the chance to save her mum, and he failed?

Draco’s mind spins, and in the fog of the glowing green potion, he feels like he’s missing something. Something important. 

Lucius slams his hands down on the table, and Draco flinches. Lucius and Sirius are still hissing at each other, and Granger has disappeared. 

Where did she go?

“Get out of my house,” Lucius says, as if he’s bored. He settles back into his seat, sneering at Sirius. “Amycus.” 

Carrow shoots up out of his chair, grabbing Sirius’s arm.

Sirius shakes him off. “I can find my own way to the floo.” He pushes back forcefully from the table, scattering cards and stacks of gold in his wake. 

Lucius smiles insincerely, then twitches his wand at the upset table. The contents right themselves, and he lets out a laboured sigh. “Make sure he leaves,” he orders Carrow.

Carrow nods and follows Sirius out of the room, leaving Draco alone with Lucius at the table.

“Well, well.” Lucius eyes him warily, lip curled. “You’re practically chartreuse, Son.”

Draco manages a silent nod, avoiding eye contact. 

“Malfoys never get visibly inebriated,” Lucius continues. “If you vomit at your mother’s party, in front of all these people, she’ll eat us both for breakfast.” He pauses to give Draco a sidelong appraisal, his eyebrows raised in amusement. “You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for tonight. No more alcohol or… whatever it is that you’ve been imbibing like a greedy pauper. Trinket.” The elf appears silently at his side. “Produce a sobriety potion for Draco, now.”

Trinket blinks away, and a moment later, a bottle appears on the table in front of Draco. 

Draco downs the potion, and the world sharpens into focus. He lets out a long sigh. 

Lucius’s lips twitch. “Run along now, and stay out of trouble.”

Draco nods, wanting nothing better than to escape Lucius’s oppressive presence. As if in a trance, his feet carry him to the drawing room, hoping beyond hope that Granger isn’t there. Carrow loiters outside the closed door making overtly flirtatious conversation with a couple of witches whom Draco doesn’t recognize. He slips past them. 

Inside, he finds both Granger and Sirius. 

His stomach crawls up his oesophagus like a living, repulsive thing—like how the Weasel must have felt all those years ago when he cursed himself with the slugs. Draco would gladly take a slug-vomiting curse if it meant getting Granger out of the Manor and far away from the detestable drawing room. 

“I can’t believe you, Granger,” he says, striding forward purposely. How could she have been so stupid to have come here?

She barely spares him a glance, too busy bidding goodbye to Sirius, who already has one foot in the fireplace.

Sirius gives him a long look before leaving. An emotion flickers in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to catch. It reminds him of that long walk they took together back from the Shrieking Shack. Draco had found himself alone with Sirius for a few minutes, as the girls were dragging their feet and trailing farther and farther behind in the tunnel. 

“For a moment there,” Sirius had said, “I thought you were your father. You look just like him.” 

A lump formed in Draco’s throat.  “Everyone tells me that.” The words came out stilted. “That I look like him.”

“They said the same to me, when I was young. ‘You must be a Black.’ Then I’d open my big mouth, and they’d think they’d made a mistake.” He huffed a laugh. “I never let the Black hair and eyes determine who I was. I never let my family name cage me.” 

“Fat lot of good that did you,” Draco scoffed. “You ended up in Azkaban all the same, one cell over from Aunt Bellatrix.” 

Sirius nodded, letting silence stretch between them. Granger and Pansy’s laughter echoed behind them.  “If the choice is suffering in the name of hate for my family or suffering in the name of freedom for my friends, I’ll always choose the latter.”

“It’s not always that simple.”

Sirius turned his haunted, lined face towards him. “It’s always that simple when your friends are muggleborns and blood traitors.” His face hardened. 

The implication was clear. 

“How do you know?”

“It’s amazing the things people will say in front of a dog.”

“Don’t—You can’t—” Draco wasn’t sure what he was trying to say. A splintering feeling of panic was seizing his body. 

“Don’t worry, Draco,” Sirius said. “Her secret is safe with me.” He clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Yours too. When you’re ready to suffer for your friends, know that your family is bigger than just your Death Eater parents. We’re cousins, after all.”

Now, Sirius steps into the fire and disappears, leaving only the ghost of past words lingering in the air. 

Draco stomps forward into the drawing room. Above, the chandelier sways, refracting red light across the room. She stands below it, and for a moment, Draco sees only red—red on the floor, red on the walls, red in the air, and the suffocating dome of the Madwoman’s crystal ball crashes down, pinning them both to the floor. 

He blinks and shoves his anxiety behind lock and key into the trunk in his mind, shoving his occlumency into place. 

“What in Merlin’s name were you thinking?” he hisses.

“What’s wrong? What am I meant to have done?” Granger bristles, taking a step back. Her eyes are puffy and rimmed red, and shimmering streaks of black and red cosmetics drip in smeared lines down her cheekbones.

He almost reaches a hand out to comfort her, but his hands find the top of his head instead. Perhaps the intuitive response would be to ask the witch, who has recently had what looks like a severely violent cry, if she’s alright. Perhaps, if he were less of a belligerent arsehole, he would. However, the words get stuck in his throat, and all that comes out is an angry, wordless noise. “How could you come here, to my father’s house?” he says. “Merlin, you’re so fucking stupid sometimes, Granger! Don’t you understand anything?”

She recoils. “Why?” She crosses her arms, nose in the air. “Don’t want Daddy to see you talking to a halfblood? You’re so predictable, Draco.” 

“Wow, really Granger?” His iron-hard frustration with her quickly turns to molten anger. He risked everything for her. The Hyena, the Records… he almost burned down the whole damned school for her. How can she insinuate that everything he’s done was to protect his image, not hers? “After everything?” 

She tries to brush past him to get to the door, but he grabs her by the arm. She tries to pull away, but his grip is stronger.

“Let go of me, you toad!”

“There’s no way I’m letting you go back out there.” Carrow is standing outside the door. Lucius lurks in the room beyond. 

“Let me? Excuse me?”

 “Who did you come with? Please tell me Pansy wasn’t stupid enough to bring you here.”

“So what if I came with Pansy? You’ve got something against her now, too?”

“Don’t be a bitch, Granger.” 

“Then don’t be an insufferable prat, Malfoy .”

“You can’t go back out there!” he snarls. “You need to leave here, now!”

Granger crosses her arms and rolls her neck. 

This is going spectacularly poorly. He is being a massive prat. She’s right, even if she’s being irresponsibly fat-headed and aggressive. He needs to backtrack. He needs to—He releases her arm to run his hands through his hair, and she quickly backs away, making for the door. Realising his mistake, he dashes in front of her, pressing his back to the door, arms spread wide to bar her escape.

“You’re a loathsome brute, Draco. Let me out.”

The door jiggles at his back; someone’s trying to come into the room. 

“Fuck,” he says as the door jiggles again. 

His eyes dart wildly around the room, then he’s pulling her by the wrist, sprinting across the drawing room to the secret passageway entrance. Inside, as the panel clicks shut behind them, Draco draws a deep sigh of relief. Granger jerks her wrist out of his grasp, hissing curses at him under her breath.

She is bathed in shadow and impossible to make out clearly, but he can feel rage pouring off her in alarming waves. The stippled dots of light filtering through the peepholes in the wall divide her in stark contrast between dingy, monochromatic grey and splotches of colour. It paints a vibrant line of light down her temple, her jaw, and the frizzy ends of her hair.

She shifts away from him as she takes in her new surroundings. With Granger, curiosity always trumps anger, and he can sense her deflate.

“Draco,” she starts loudly (practically howling like a banshee), but he quickly steps forward, clasping his hand over her mouth.

“Not here,” he whispers.

She tries to wrench away; tries to bite his hand, like an uncouth ruffian, but stops struggling when she hears noise beyond the false panels. Carrow and his witches have swarmed into the drawing room, laughing riotously, clearly drunk. 

Once Draco is sure Granger isn’t about to start shouting again, he releases his hold on her. She sniffs angrily, drifting toward the nearest hole in the wall, observing the people on the other side with tight lips. She walks the length of the passage and then back again, trailing her pointer finger along the wall. 

She stops in front of him and wipes her finger on his chest, smearing dust on his robes. 

He frowns at her, not that she can see his annoyance.

“Now what?” she whispers.

She’s blocking the other exit, the one that leads to a little-used servant's corridor which hails back to the Manor’s muggle days, before the introduction of elf servitude. 

His hand lands on her shoulder and he steps close to her, in order to push her out of the way. But as he’s stepping into her, he can hear her breath stutter and falter, and some part of his addled, sleep-deprived mind coasts to a full stop. Only a breath away, he can smell her. It’s floral, maybe. Something feminine and beautiful. 

All thoughts of guilt and annoyance and fear make a swift exit as he tries to place the exact scent. She used to always smell like citrus and coffee (more likely a product of her poor dietary regime than a conscious choice) which was pleasantly distracting, at the time. That, and the overwhelmingly sharp scent of Pepper-Up.  

He almost misses it, the ostentatious smell of frenzied studying that usually clings to her person during the school year. He wonders if buried under that floral perfume, it's still there. If his nose were to her neck, he wonders if he could smell it. 

This close, even in the darkness, he can now see her features more clearly. Her eyebrows furrow slightly, a silent question to ask him why he’s staring. In response, his hand leaves her shoulder to push an escaping lock of wild hair behind her ear. Her eyes are wide, flicking back and forth between his. Her expression softens, and then her eyes flick down. She bites her bottom lip. She’s holding her breath. 

Draco can hear his heart beating. Another step, impossibly closer—Granger inhales sharply—Parted lips—He wants to kiss her. He’s shouting at himself in his mind. Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her!

But Carrow and his witches interrupt his trance with an especially loud peel of laughter, and both Draco and Granger jolt. 

Draco pushes her out of the way of the exit and brushes past her, his heart thumping in his chest as if he just pulled out of a dive on his broom far too close to the ground.

His fingers fumble along the back wall, searching for the groove that triggers the exit. Click. The wall opens up to the darkened hall beyond. 

He pulls her out of the secret passage by the wrist, and the wall closes behind them. 

He moves to start up the dingy hallway, hand clamped around Granger’s left wrist, half a plan forming in his head. Maybe he’ll hide her away somewhere. No, he needs to get her to the floo, only not the one in the drawing room. There’s a fireplace upstairs in one of the sitting rooms. Right, he’ll take her up there, shove her in the floo—and maybe he’ll kiss her first, once she’s a safe distance away from the party—and then this nightmare will finally be over, and he’ll go to bed and sleep for about ten weeks, and maybe when he wakes up, summer will be conveniently over, and he’ll go back to school and never come back to the Manor ever again—

“Draco,” Granger hisses, pulling out of his grasp.

She crosses her arms. “I’m not taking another step until you tell me what the hell is going on. I’m going back to the party—”

“No you’re not.” 

“God!” She rolls her neck. 

Of course she won’t come quietly. Why must everything be so difficult with her?

“Come on—come with me.”

“No,” she snaps. She takes a step back and sits down, cross-legged in the middle of the dusty hall. “I’m not moving until you say something other than ‘come with me’ or” —her voice trembles— “‘Granger, you stupid bitch.’” 

“Fine.” Maybe he shouldn’t have been so harsh. He closes his eyes. Finding the wall, he slides down into a seated position. “Fine,” he says, muffled, through his hands. Then: “I can’t believe you.”

Granger scoots to the wall opposite him, feet stretched in front of her (still with her damn arms crossed), waiting for him to explain himself. Facing each other in the cramped corridor, they sit less than a metre apart. 

She nudges him with her foot. 

He flicks her shin. She kicks him again, harder this time, and his lips twitch. 

“Come on Draco,” she says. “Spit it out” 

He pulls his head out of his hands, squinting at her. (It’s so dark in the hall; he can barely see her.) He hopes she can see his unimpressed look. “Do you have to be so shrill all the time?”

“Arsehole,” she says (shrilly). 

He sighs. “I thought we were on the same page. Lie low? Don’t rock the boat? Don’t come to the Death Eater infested party at my parent’s house? What the fuck is wrong with you, Granger?”

“Last I checked, Pansy successfully convinced the entire wizarding world that I’m a halfblood.” 

He scoffs. “You shouldn’t be so sure.”

“Why?” she says sharply. “What do you know?”

Oh, he knows plenty. But can he tell her?

He can’t tell her. He realises now, with the chill of sobriety, what he couldn’t understand earlier: that this was Lucius’s strategy all along.

What better way to separate him from Granger and her so-called poisonous muggle ideology than to make him complicit in her mother’s torture and death? How can Draco now call himself a blood traitor when he’s tortured and helped kill a muggle? He’s closer to Death Eater than he’s ever been to blood traitor. Granger will want nothing to do with him if she knows. 

In her own way, Narcissa had tried to warn him. Fat lot of good that did. She’d told him to convince Lucius that Granger didn’t matter. But in that dark cellar this morning, Draco did the opposite. 

That was the real test—not some bullshit about learning dark magic, and not showing Lucius he still believed the lie he’d been fed since birth about muggles. The real test was choosing whether to play the game at all. It was an unwinnable game; a misdirection. 

To participate at all was to lose, and Lucius knew it.  

Lucius knew that if he could make Draco successfully curse Granger’s muggle mum, it would prove his loyalty to the family and the pureblood ideal. If he failed to curse her, then Lucius would kill her. Both options would implicate Draco.

Draco had failed to curse her, as Lucius surely knew he would. That’s why he had set up the Eidolon for Vince beforehand.

Lucius knew Draco would not be able to curse her. But he also knew that even Draco’s attempt would be enough to separate him from people like Granger.  

Granger’s mum had said as much herself. He’s not trying to give you agency, Draco. He’s trying to take it away. Her words are finally ringing true in his ears, because now, Draco sees how he’s been trapped. 

If he tells Granger the truth, she’ll never forgive him. 

If he doesn’t tell Granger the truth, the guilt will eat him alive. Plus, the unsung threat still rings loud and clear. Mummy first, daughter next. Watch your step, Son. Draco can’t be close to her, otherwise Lucius will surely kill her. 

The truth will drive a wedge between them, no matter what he chooses.

There’s no move left to make. Checkmate, Son.

“Draco,” Granger repeats, harsher this time, “what do you know?”

He sinks into the wall, deflating. “Nothing, I—” He clears his throat. “Just because Pansy says it, doesn’t mean you should listen. She doesn’t know everything. You’re putting yourself in danger. You shouldn’t assume that everyone believes—”

“If I want to belong in this world” —her words drip with melancholic sincerity, and it sickens him— “I have to act like I belong. I have every right to be at this party with the rest of Slytherin.”

“You don’t belong in this world, Granger!” He scrambles up, pacing, arms thrown wide to emphasise his point. “This world is sick! You shouldn’t want to belong to it.”

Although the sentiment rings true, as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows he’s made a mistake. 

She takes a long time to answer, and when she does, her voice is small, like he’s reduced her to nothing. It’s appalling, but he’ll bear the stomach ache if that’s what it takes to keep Granger off of the drawing room floor.  “Make up your mind,” she says. “‘Granger, I hate you, go back to the muggles—Granger, I like you, go back to the muggles.’ Can’t you see how you sound?” she sniffles. “What do you even want from me?”

Is she crying? It’s so damned dark here, he can barely tell. Swallowing the taste of bile, he debates going to her, crossing the dingy hallway and putting his arm around her—or something. That’s what you’re supposed to do when your witch is crying. (When you’ve made your witch cry). He’s never seen Narcissa cry, but surely Lucius, who dotes on her, would apologise and offer a shoulder to cry on. 

He paces back and forth in the darkness, Granger still breathing irregularly, surely crying. 

He’s really fumbled this one. It’s like he’s watching himself in slow motion. And even in the act of fumbling, knowing what he’s doing doesn’t seem to help the blighted situation any more. 

“Say something, Draco.” 

This is where he should apologise and say something nice. He stops pacing. “I want you to not be a complete pumpkin head.” He runs both hands through his hair in frustration—at himself for making another snide comment, and at her for deserving said snide comment and putting him in this blasted situation to start with. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous for you to be here? You can’t be here, at my house. What if my father had seen you? Merlin, what if he saw you now, with me? He’d go mental!”

She rises. “I thought it meant something when you kissed me.” She takes one, two, three steps toward him.  “But I get it now,” she continues. “Nothing actually changed.” 

He steps forward, and she thumps back into the wall. Faintly, through two sets of walls, sounds of drunken merriment echo in the air. 

“You know what my father is like. You think because I kissed you, the world is now magically changed? Don’t be dense.”

 “I—”

“ I changed.” His voice cracks. “ I changed , Granger. Why can’t that be enough?”

“You just want to hide me.” She wipes at her eyes, voice heavy. 

“Of course I want to hide you. I want you to be safe, you daft witch!”

“That’s not for me, Draco. That’s for you!”She slams her palms hard against his chest, trying to push him back. 

He gasps, but he doesn’t budge. He leans in, catching both her hands on the wall behind her. 

“You’re impossible. I don’t understand how you can be this stupid! This is your life, Granger. Your life. How can you be so careless?”

“You act like I’m in some sort of life or death situation—”

“—you are —”

“—but that’s all a construct, I know it is.” Her eyes are glossy in the low light, and silver tears track down to her chin. 

He makes an incredulous noise in the back of his throat, leaning closer, pushing her wrists harder into the wall.  “A construct? What about wanting you not to die is a construct, Granger?”

She wriggles in his grip, but he doesn’t release her. “Whether I’m at some rich aristocrat’s party is not life or death. You’re overreacting, like you always do. And it says more about you than it does my actual safety.” 

“That’s ridiculous, I—”

“You say that you want to gain my trust, Draco. You act like you’re sorry, like you’ve changed. But you haven't. Not where it counts." She squirms in his grip. "You still see me as a dirty m-mudblood , your dir-dirty secret, right? And god forbid someone finds out.”

“Exactly! Merlin forbid someone finds out, Granger! I thought we were on the same page about this! What about all your scheming, lying to the school? Telling everyone you’re a halfblood? That was your idea” —his right hand comes down to poke her in the sternum, letting one of her hands free— “not mine. So don’t blame me when I’m trying to help you!” 

Her free hand finds the front of his robes. “And how is ‘helping me’ acting like I’m some stain on your pureblood household? I’m a halfblood—at least, everyone at this party thinks I’m a halfblood! So what are you so scared for?”

His throat bobs as he hesitates, but Granger cuts him off before he can speak. “You’re so scared someone’s going to find out that I’m a mudblood and that you knew the whole time. You’re so scared that someone’s going to find out that you're a blood traitor, Draco.” Her hand turns to a fist, pulling at his robes. She doesn’t push against him again; she leans forward, only centimetres away. “That you kissed a mudblood.” 

Her words fall between them, and her breath puffs warm across his face. A corkscrew strand of hair brushes her eyebrow. It sticks to her wet cheek. There’s a beat of silence, as he fumes. He wants to tell her that she’s got it all wrong. He wants to tell her about her mother—to ask her what her mother’s name was. If he tells her about her mother’s murder, surely she’ll understand what the stakes are.

Her hand tugs the fabric of his robes, as she clings angrily to him, pulling him imperceptibly closer. Her other wrist is still restrained, limp in his hand. Her voice shakes. “Is this all because you want to take it back?” 

“I’d never take that back.”

And here she is, glowering up at him, her eyes leaking like a broken faucet, so angry at him for only his regular levels of assholery. If she hates him now, then he might as well tell her—she deserves to know. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry Granger—Hermione, I’m sorry—I wish—I know I’ve been foul to you, but it’s just—”

Her eyes flick back and forth between his, and he realises again how close they’re standing. In anger, he had boxed her in against this wall. Now, pressed too close to her, chest to chest, he hesitates, frozen with remorse. She looks at him with such intensity, like a storm is churning in her irises. Anger or hurt or—something shifts in her face. He exhales deeply, and her eyes flick down. 

This might be the last time she’ll allow him this close to her. If this is his last chance, then it would be a crime not to kiss her. 

“Just what, Draco,” she breathes. 

Suddenly, one of his hands is digging in her hair and the other is at her back—and he’s pulling her forward, off of the wall, tilting her face up. And he only has a split second to prepare himself, but that split second feels like years, as he closes the space between them. 

Their first kiss had been so gentle, in that dark, abandoned room in the dungeons. It had been silky smooth and soft like cashmere. He had been nervous, and he could tell she was too, from the way her hands had gripped his shoulders so tightly. It was slow, like a summer afternoon, as they pressed their lips together. And it had ended quickly, with her giggling and him grinning like a fool. 

This kiss is nothing like the last. His heart is on fire, burning, as she kisses him back. Her hands slide up his chest and into his hair, pushing it back, pulling it tight. His hands are on her face, his thumbs stroking her wet cheekbones. His tongue traces the inside of her bottom lip, and she gasps. And his mouth locks on her cupid’s bow, then her tongue is soft in his mouth, and everything is splendid, absolutely splendid—

Except that deep, plunging feeling of guilt. 

Everything is awful, absolutely awful. He shouldn’t be kissing her. 

He pushes her away.

“I can’t do this,” he says. He doesn’t deserve to kiss her. Merlin, he helped kill her mother, and now he’s kissing her? It’s despicable. 

“What?” she says breathlessly. She tries to pull him back, but he keeps her at arm's length, hands firm on her shoulders. 

He swallows. “I can’t do this,” he repeats.

“You kissed me, Draco.”

“I know—I’m sorry.” His voice shakes. “I can’t, Granger—”

She stiffens and her face hardens. “You’re a rat, Malfoy.” She turns, jerking away from him, to stalk up the hallway. 

“No—wait—Granger—”

“I’m done,” she snaps, still retreating down the hall. “I’m done waiting for you to explain yourself. Congratulations, you’re getting what you wished for. I’m leaving. Show me the floo.”

“Hermione, I—” 

“Shut up Malfoy. Show me the floo.”

And so he does. In silence, he leads her down the dingy servants’ corridor to a stretch of the house that he knows will also be empty.

She disappears through the nearest floo. 

It’s better this way. 

***

The sun had set completely while Draco hid in that dusty corridor with Hermione. Thus, the longest day of the year—of Draco’s short, miserable life—finally begins to drag to an end. Unforgiving darkness cloaks the night sky. Golden firelight from the gaudy, conjured phoenix tail feathers is the only light outside, and it reflects on the window panes in glaring definition. 

Draco makes a beeline for his wing, avoiding eye contact with any and all of the sleazy partygoers so as to not get drawn into their squalid conversations. Bed—beautiful, comfortable, and inimitable bed—is only a few hallways away. 

“Oi, Draco!”

With meaty hands on the back of his robes, a brute pulls him up short. 

“Get off me, Goyle.”

“Don’t ‘Goyle’ me, Draco. The fireworks are about to start. It’s dragon time.”

“Bollocks.”

Greg loses his small smile, his face turning expressionless (which is his version of pouting). He narrows his eyes. “You get in a fight with a kneazle? You look like shite.”

Draco scowls. “I’ve had a long day.”

Greg appraises Draco’s mussed-up hair and robes, then pulls him in, arm over Draco’s neck, unfortunately introducing him to Greg’s armpit. Greg gives him a forceful noogie. 

“You just snog someone, Draco?” Greg snickers, still applying painful knuckles to Draco’s scalp.

Draco thrashes, his defences completely compromised. 

“Who was it?”

“LET ME GO.”

Greg cackles in response.

“FUCK—Greg—OUCH—please—”

“What in Circe’s name are you two doing?” someone says.

Greg releases Draco, still laughing. As soon as Draco scrambles upright, he sends the nastiest tripping hex that he can muster at Greg. Greg faceplants, but picks himself up into a seated position quickly, still laughing. Bastard. 

The newcomer—Pansy, looking high and mighty at them both—gives Greg a hand up. 

“Trying to get Draco to tell me who he’s been snogging,” Greg says. 

“Interesting,” says Pansy. Her eyes flicker evilly. “Who were you snogging, Draco?”

Draco smooths his hair, sneering at her.

Across the room, a group of elderly witches are looking at their group like they’ve been completely scandalised. Draco suppresses the urge to sneer at them too. 

“Outside,” Greg says. “Before our parents kick us out completely. I can’t miss my meeting with Weasley.”

“They can’t kick me out of my own home,” Draco mutters, but he follows Greg nonetheless.

Would they kick him out? If he was open about his blood-traitory exploits? Would they disinherit him? Lucius needs an heir. Theo, similarly an only child to a rich, bigoted arsehole, hasn’t been disinherited even though he’s on the outs with his father.

“Ronald Weasley? He can’t be here, can he?” Pansy frowns, trailing behind.

“Not that one,” Greg says. “Different Weasley.”

“Weasels come in prodigious broods,” Draco says, “don’t you know. It’s the rodent affiliation. Like rats, they multiply.”

“You mean ‘like rabbits’?” says Pansy, amused. 

(“Weasels aren’t rodents,” mutters Greg, “they’re mustelids.”)

“No, I meant ‘rats,’” says Draco snidely. “That’s why I said ‘rats.’”

“Rabbits are too cute to describe mudbloods and blood traitors,” says Greg. “Rats are better. Dragon taming rats, though,” he adds, lips downturned comically. “Draco bribed him to let us pet the baby dragons.”

“They say those who lie with dogs ascend with fleas,” Pansy says, sending a pointed look to Draco. “I assume it’s the same with… rats.”

Greg rushes forward, seeing Charlie ahead, lounging against the side of the dragon tent, now closed for business.

“Clever, if I were the one lying with them,” Draco says. “That’s all our pal, Greg, here.”

“No, you’re just snogging them.” Pansy says under her breath, so only Draco can hear.

“I’m not snogging a Weasley,” says Draco, aghast. 

“But you are snogging a ‘mudblood or blood traitor,’ are you not?” 

Pansy has always had a sinister-looking smile, even back when they were truly friends (and their friendship was closer to a military allyship than playground accomplices had any right to claim). While he could regularly scare other kids off with his sneer, she could do the same with her smile. Now that their friendship is theoretically back on, albeit on shaky, tentative legs post-shrieking shack incident, Draco still finds her ability to turn smiles into proclamations of war unsettling, to say the least. 

Draco rolls his eyes. “Did you want something, Parkinson? Or are you here only to bother me?” 

“I was looking for Hermione. I was going to ask if you’ve seen her, but…” She tosses her hair. “I think we’ve already established that you have.”

“She’s left.”

Pansy pulls up short. “She left? Without me?”

“Obviously.”

“What did you do?”

What didn’t he do? That’s the real question. “You’re hostile today, aren’t you?” he says instead. 

“Draco! Come on,” Greg calls from behind the golden tent flaps. 

“After you,” Draco says, pulling the entrance to the tent open.

Pansy shakes her head. “Please,” she scoffs. “I actually value my life.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Right. I’m out of here. Nice party Draco. See you ‘round.” 

Draco ducks into the tent, leaving Pansy and her one-woman army behind. 

The tent is empty, save for Charlie and the three dragons—and Greg, of course, whose hands are clenched tightly together, as if to keep himself from running forward, straight into the den of dragons.

“Payment?” says Charlie, in lieu of a greeting.

“Owl me your vault number and I’ll have my goblin move the gold.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “Fair enough.”

“Where are your friends?” Draco asks, glancing around the otherwise empty tent. 

“No one will disturb us for about half an hour, I’ve made sure of it. The dragons’ve just been fed, so they’re as docile as they’ll ever be right now.”

Each roughly the size of a rhinoceros, the three dragons lounge in the tent, their shiny red scales glinting. Two dragons lie sequestered near the back of the tent, while one, the largest, sprawls in the middle.

“That’s Lucy,” Charlie says. “I’ve put her behind her own set of wards. She’s who you’ll be meeting.”

They look sated enough—Lucy even appears to be sleeping, emitting low, breathy snores—but one can never be sure around dragons. Watching them, with their long teeth and razor-sharp claws,  Draco starts to think that Pansy had the right idea all along, and retreats until his back thumps into the canvas of the tent wall. 

Greg looks wistfully toward Lucy. It notices him and rises to all four feet. 

Greg approaches, unperturbed, but Charlie grabs him by the arm before he can get too close. 

“Hold on, kid,” Charlie says, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” 

Lucy opens her mouth wide, flashing three rows top and bottom of thin, sharp teeth, like a shark. Draco almost loses his macaroons, sure that he’s about to die, but his panic subsides as he realises that the dragon is yawning, not preparing to rip out his throat. It stretches long like a cat, then saunters forward, toward Greg and Charlie. 

Charlie’s wand springs out rigidly before them. 

“What do I do?” Greg asks. 

“Just stand there for now. You want to look her right in the eyes and think your friendliest thoughts.” 

Greg holds out his hand, palm forward, and Lucy slinks forward slowly. After watching him for a tense minute, she thrusts her snout into his palm. Greg’s face breaks into a huge grin. 

“What happens if you don’t think friendly thoughts?” Draco asks, inching forward. He remembers last year, when he disregarded Hagrid’s warning about the bloody hippogriffs.

“I’d be prepared to get cooked,” Charlie snorts. 

“They don’t actually read your mind, Draco,” Greg says. “Their magic only tells your intentions; it's like a sixth sense.”

“Right,” Charlie says, “it's not quite legilimency, but it’s close enough to scare the shite out of me sometimes. They’re bloody smart, dragons.”

Lucy makes a deep chuffing noise as Greg scratches under her chin. 

“Your hands are so close to her mouth,” Draco says.

“She won’t bite me,” says Greg. He punctuates his statement with a big smooch to Lucy’s snout. 

Draco recoils. “You don’t know that, Greg.”

He shakes his head. “Yes I do,” he says, slurring his words into babytalk, addressing Lucy. “You won’t hurt me, will you?”

She chuffs again, thrusting her head into his hand.

“Honestly,” says Charlie, looking dumbfounded, “this is going a lot better than I expected.”

Draco steps forward, approaching slowly behind Greg. When he gets within petting distance, Lucy jolts forward. She flings a wing over Greg territorially and snaps her teeth at Draco. 

Draco lunges back, while Greg snickers. 

“I’d stand back if I were you,” says Charlie mildly. 

“Thanks, Weasley,” Draco snarls, “I managed to figure that out myself.”

It would be a cruel irony to die from a dragon, Draco thinks. Not wanting to tempt fate, he slips out of the tent, leaving Greg and his dragon inside. 

He breathes in the cool night air.

Across the lawn, Narcissa has her wand in the air, ready to clear the sky for her fireworks show. She conducts the conjured phoenixes, like an orchestra. Instead of music, the sky turns to hissing fire. The birds burn bright, flaring to ash. They fade away completely, not reborn from their fiery graves. 

Once the last phoenix has crumbled, the expansive night sky stretches before Draco, empty. The silence is resounding as he looks for his lucky constellation above but quickly turns his eyes away. It’s no use. He’s blind. His eyes are too strained from the dying brightness of the birds. Their afterimages burn into the blackness around him, blocking out the stars. 

He stands alone in echoing silence.