Authors Note:
I've gone back and pretty much completely redone this chapter so that it makes a little more sense in the context of the rest of the story. This entire thing is sort of clunky since it wasn't really supposed to pan out into a full fledged story anyways, but this particular chapter bugged me the most. It was sort of supposed to be a one shot, that turned into a two shot, and then just sort of took itself over from there. I enjoy the fact that it keeps me busy, so I'll keep writing regardless of how bad it is.
Hermione Granger had been staring at the same small, slightly discolored patch on the wall of the Gryffindor common room for what could have been seconds, minutes, or even hours. None of it made any difference to her. Time was cruelly refusing to pass, as it always had these days. Instead, time sat stagnant and stale, hanging thick and stifling in the air like the smoke trapped from the fireplace. She couldn't recall how long it had been since she had actually sat down on the sofa and begun to stare down the strangely off-colored blot in the first place, only that it felt like an eternity, and that each minute passed slower and with more resistance than the last, and that her gaze had been focused on small, unfortunate patch of mismatched paint for so long that a myriad of colors and strange, illusionary bursts of light had begun to cloud her vision. She knew she should have been studying, but her mind refused to think straight and she found herself staring offhandedly at the words at the page, registering none of the information.
These days, it seemed like time was never on her side. Pressure from school was taking a toll on her health, Harry's growing obsession with the Dark Lord was making her mental, and a rising tension had engulfed the hallways of Hogwarts. The suspicion between Gryffindor and Slytherin house was palpable, leaving a stark, uncomfortable silence whenever the two rival groups were in proximity to each other. Making matters even worse for her was the butterflies she felt whenever a certain Slytherin cross her path, followed shortly by crippling guilt as she realized her palms were sweating and all the color had drained from her face as she pulled her robe closer, tightening the scarf carefully wrapped around her neck to self consciously conceal any visible evidence, despite the fact that a carefully completed glamour spell concealed it all entirely.
The reminders were small, but left emotions running rampant through her mind. A small, crescent-shaped bruise placed the base of her neck hidden beneath her uniform that ached sweetly any time she ran her fingertips over the indents. A series of fading claw marks running down the small of her back where nails had desperately dug into her tender flesh. A sickly sweet aroma that clung to her robes, entangling itself in her curled locks, seeping from her own pores and permeating her body like a disease. The familiar taste of him that made a home in her mouth, and the way she abhorred herself for the way she savored the flavor of it, and more so when she would panic as it began to fade away. Even worse than her bodily momentos was the morning hours afterward, where she knew she could still trace the lines on the face from the night before with accuracy and map out subtle inconsistencies on pallid skin and pale, flaxen hair from memory like constellations, recalling every flaw, form, and shape from a face she desperately wanted to remember in unbroken detail.
Her conscience weighed on her heavily, even more she would see Ron eyeing her suspiciously when she would realize she had been staring at the same page unblinkingly for several minutes, or when Harry would point out she hadn't touched her food in the Great Hall, or when Ginny would comment on the peculiar way she was walking that day. Each time her face would flush a furious shade of crimson and she would insist she was fine, just stressed out and worried about 'You-know-who' and of course, term finals. No marks could have possibly been visible, she meticulously made sure of it. All that remained of long-standing lie she wove was the tarnishing marks it left on her mind, weighing her indefinitely to the moments that refused to pass peacefully, imprinting themselves permanently inside of her weeks and even months later.
The shame had been expected, but the thing that caught her off guard was the unfamiliar, sorrowful ache she felt on the nights she would spend alone. A sick sense of need for something that should never have existed in the first place, and an overwhelming longing for someone she knew she should have detested alongside her classmates. Although she considered herself somewhat decent at covering the truth, occasionally her companions would remark on her eyes. The way they became just a bit too bloodshot from restless nights, or a bit too weighted and piercing from an unblinking and empty stare, or a bit too glassed over from what she knew was holding in the sentiments that she knew could never be known by anyone, especially her classmates or most of all, her closest and most trusted friends. Luckily, her environment provided countless excuses for her morose demeanor, and the truth was so unbelievably outlandish that no one would ever suspect it, least of all from her, Gryffindors' golden girl.
As much as she absolutely despised lying to those closest to her, it was an inevitability. There was no way they could possibly understand the reason why there was a sharp, carving pain she felt where her heart should have been beating or the pressure that mounted heavily underneath her eyes and cheeks. She would be deemed a traitor for cause of the clawing, mournful ache she felt rise in her throat, or the empty pit that settled in her stomach, forming a hideous, hollow home in her core. Hermione Granger would rather be thrown in St. Mungos and deemed completely and utterly insane than to admit to her loved ones the pathetic, school girlish way she yearned for the company of the man who had incessantly made her school years miserable, and even if she did admit it, St. Mungos would likely be the outcome. That or howling laughter accompanied by "Good one, Mione!" It was a risk she didn't want to take.
That was not to mention the danger that would place both her secret companion and herself in. There was so much more at stake than social ostracism and ridicule. Their encounters were kept carefully guarded between them, absolutely private moments that could never be known to the outside world, or by the confidants of either side. Should the wrong people ever catch wind of their activities, death would be the preferable option to what would likely follow. The Order would no doubt consider any information she had to be compromised if she was caught fraternizing with a member of a family in close quarters with Voldemort himself, and that would be nothing in comparison to the Death Eaters that wouldn't take kindly to one of their own "dirtying himself" with one of her kind. A half-breed. A traitor. A mudblood. She often shivered at the thought of what would become of her if anyone were to ever discover the truth.
Hermione considered herself a logical and rational human being, yet even considering the consequences and the betrayal of those she held dear, she couldn't bring herself to put an end to the nights where they could finally stop pretending. When she was with him, she felt something she wasn't so sure she could feel anywhere else anymore. She felt calm. Even more, she felt a girlish sense of excitement watching the hateful facade fall from his features as he took her hand and led her away into the night. A strange, tingling feeling would settle in her stomach at the animated way he would speak about things he was loved or had recently learned about as they lie together in his bed. For the first time in a long time, she would crack up in hearty laughter alongside him when he would tell her stories about his childhood, like the time he accidentally poured bubble juice all over Lucius' brand new set of expensive robes and confidently tried to get it out using his new wand only to light them on fire instead, or the time his mother and father had gotten so drunk on Firewhiskey that they sang at the top of their lungs while dancing around the front room together. Most of all, the peaceful look that would come across Draco's face as he finally drifted to sleep holding her closely. It was these things that made her disappear into the night anytime she received the parchment bearing the words she awaited anxiously.
"I need you now, Granger"
These words would beckon to her again, and she would acknowledge the call with hardly a second thought, knowingly walking herself down a treacherous road, a fair price to pay for the betrayal of those she held dear. As much as she would fiercely deny it, she coveted those small sunset hours where his intimate fragrance was at home once more with the source, the taste of him that she craved could again be gluttonously enjoyed, the caress of his warm skin was no longer a ghost that haunted her, and the things he confided in her in the darkness of their sanctuary still resounded freshly in her mind. Though she didn't want to admit it to herself, or most especially anyone else, she would miss the way her heart would beat furiously any time he whispered the phrase "I want you, Granger" demandingly into her ear, and the soft way his hands would trace patterns on her back as she curled up beside him.
The morning would come too soon and put an end to the few hours where they could finally be at peace with each other, carving a terrible path through the navy sky and bringing with it the realization that a new day was dawning, a day where to the outside world, they were once again Slytherin and Gryffindor, Pureblood and halfblood, Malfoy and Granger. In the last few moments before she would make her way back to the common room, their lips would meet in one final exchange, and the only thought that flooded her mind was "Will this be the last time?" The thought pained her as she sat alone in the common room, running her hands over the glamoured marks dotting her body, thinking the same line over and over again.
"I should have kissed you longer."