The war had brought a feeling of perpetual unsettlement to Hermione. Sometimes, she liked to believe that she felt something intangible rise in her, happiness almost, but the sorrow would never relinquish completely.
Hermione yielded to her soft, velvety sheets of emerald and gold. It was positively freezing – a soft breeze emerged from her open window. She curled up tightly, hoping to gather heat, although she could not bring herself to close the window. As her gaze lifted to the large, unclean window, she recognized the flakes of white that were tumbling consistently downwards; they were without pattern and had only the wind to guide them.
After only a few short minutes of restlessness, she emerged from her haven in the cozy sheets and walked stiffly to the window. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, and scrutinized the sky above – the clouds were visible now, although it could surely not be before four in the morning, she decided promptly. She spotted no brooms. This was surely good news.
This room was very tiny and unwelcoming. The floor was always cold, and the loose nails and become a hazard to her. Though, she had no say in the matter; she knew better than to complain. The war and all the situations that ensued entailed something to be thankful for - at least most of the time.
She grabbed a robe from the closet. It was homely, shapeless and much too large for her delicate figure. In the desperation of war, she had, even more severely than before, abused her privilege of looking unkempt. Survival was essential now, not the constant necessity of presentibility.
She stepped out of her room quietly, and gingerly descended two flights of stairs before reaching the kitchen. She was not surprised to find it occupied; it was to be expected in houses like this. The Order's headquarters location had been altered recently due to a slight scare. She was pleased to be among all her colleagues and friends, even if it meant a constant lack of privacy. These are things one learns to accept, she mused thoughtfully to herself.
Remus, Bill, and Malfoy sat around a small, circular table. The kitchen reeked of a dull smoke smell, but it was comforting, in a way. It reminded her of her father – he had always tried to conceal his occasional cigarette, as he was a dentist and they prided themselves on dental hygiene.
The men were chatting quietly over a game of poker, it seemed, and cigars. She gave them a weak hello, her eyes briefly lingering on Malfoy as she headed towards the kettle.
"Up so late, Hermione? We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow. You need your rest," Remus said with a concerned smile. Bill flashed him a royal flush, and he gave a short chuckle.
"Couldn't sleep. I can take care of myself, you know," she said passively, though polite.
She placed the filled kettle upon the stove. She was in need for some naturally brewed tea. As she waited for it to boil, she watched them play poker. Bill was shifting a wicked glance across the table at Remus and then to the side at Malfoy and Remus was doing the same. Both Bill and Remus looked confident to win, or as if they had just received extremely appeasing cards. Malfoy, between the two, and facing the stove, was quietly peering thoughtfully at his own cards, and took an occasional draw from the cigar. As he laid down his share of cards, he lifted his gaze to Hermione. His cool stare epitomized nonchalance, but she was not fooled by his minor façade. He suddenly flashed her a devious grin, willing her to redden. She glanced to the others mild relief, for they had missed it. She smiled, despite herself, and turned quickly to the boiling kettle.
She let herself be warmed by the steam rising from the kettle. The night was cold and brutal. It had been equally as cold the night Malfoy had first come to visit her. Although she reluctantly admitted it, the morning after, when she had awoken alone, his absence from her bed was noticed.