The Malfoy-Granger Guide To Fake Dating

8

It was not often that Draco Malfoy was rendered speechless.

In fact, there were only three distinct times in his life when he could remember feeling similarly.

Once, when his father had caught him, Theo, and Blaise raiding the Manor's wine cellar at four o'clock in the morning in the summer between his third and fourth year at Hogwarts.

A second time, when he'd stood in his bathroom, alone, freshly branded with the Dark Mark and staring up into the mirror at his own reflection.

It was the first moment he could recall in which he'd realized, suddenly, that this thing on his forearm meant something much, much bigger than himself. The first time he'd ever dared to wonder if maybe he'd been looking at things the wrong way all his life.

If, perhaps, his entire upbringing had been a lie.

And finally, when he'd been asked if he'd like to offer up a statement before the Wizengamot decided his final sentencing.

He'd simply shaken his head, no, and let them get on with their decision.

But in this moment; one in which he found himself frozen between the apology that should have been given long ago and the deep brown of Granger's eyes, there didn't seem to be a single word worthy of a response.

Perhaps he should have started with "I'm sorry."

Perhaps it would have been more poetic for him to fall to his knees before her and beg for forgiveness.

And he wanted to. Truly, he wanted nothing more than to tell her how his mistakes still haunted him. How he could still hear her screaming as if it were yesterday, her wails and cries cemented into his memory. He could tell her that when he closed his eyes, he still saw her there, writhing under his aunt's blade with tears sliding from the creases of her eyelids, squeezed shut in agony.

He could tell her that he regretted doing nothing to help her. Regretted the fact that he'd cowered behind every last mental wall he could construct to block out her cries. The sounds of her pleading for someone—anyone to save her.

He could tell her that he'd been a coward. That he wanted, more than anything, to believe he'd changed; grown from that scared little boy into the semblance of a man. Broken, but attempting to heal. Unworthy, but given a chance to repent for his sins.

It still wouldn't be enough—his apology. Nothing ever would be. But at least it would've been something. At least he would have tried.

But he'd long discovered that change—growth didn't happen overnight. And no matter how many times he opened his mouth, ready to tell her everything he'd bottled up inside for the past half a decade, no words managed to escape his throat.

In fact, it felt as if all the air had been squeezed from his lungs, that same cowardice restricting his windpipe.

And it was awful; so awful, the way she was looking at him now. Like she'd expected as much. Like she knew he wouldn't be capable of having any sort of meaningful conversation about their past, because he was just as selfish as before. Just as terrified of the truth.

He heard himself make a sort of choking noise; yet another attempt to speak. To offer something up to the thick silence.

But when no words came, Granger merely dropped her eyes to her lap, nodding weakly before turning to look back to his bookshelf. Draco could feel his heart slamming, his pulse echoing faintly in his fingertips and fluttering at the base of his throat.