Disclaimer - I own nothing you recognise.
A/N - Written for Hawkflight7 for the Fic Exchange of Epic Proportions. This really stretched the boundaries for me, so I hope you enjoy what I did with the pairing.
WC without AN - 1650
Paradise Lost
He wanted to be himself, if only for a little while. The metal leg, so heavy and hard to walk on, the swirling, twirling eye that made him feel sick every single time he used it. He wanted to walk on two legs, two normal, attached legs. He wanted to see with two eyes, two stable, steady eyes. He wanted to comb a hand through his hair, and feel the soft waves.
He couldn't afford to be himself often, and this was the first time he had dared to venture from the safety of his private chambers without his disguise. It was almost three in the morning, and he knew nobody but the ghosts and portraits would be around. He walked with his head down in the darkness, memories of his student days guiding him through the unlit corridors.
He didn't know how long he walked for, but he found himself in a familiar place, somewhere he spent many of his hours as a student. The library. He moved swiftly into the restricted section, taking cover in the stacks of books held there. He could feel the darkness emanating from them, and they soothed his very soul with their magic.
He knew he was taking a risk. Should he be found before the time was right, his Lord would be furious. Of course, if he was found, it wouldn't really matter. He would undoubtedly be sentenced to the Dementors kiss. Still. Just for tonight, it was worth it. Besides, who was going to happen upon him here at such a late time of night?
xxxx
She moved slowly, the unfamiliar feeling of travelling the corridors at night making her feel ill at ease. She tried to convince herself that she would be fine, no one would be out at this time of night, and anyway, Harry had done it plenty of times and he'd never been caught. She wondered what he and Ron would say if they could see her now. Ron would undoubtedly be irritated.
Still, if anyone was going to figure out what spell had been used to confund the Goblet Of Fire, it would be her, and she was fairly sure the answer would be held in the Restricted Section of the Library. She cursed herself for not having the courage to leave earlier, to give herself more time to browse through the books, more time to read a little more in depth. Oh well, there was no point crying over spilt ink. She had given herself two hours, and if it wasn't enough, she could always try again another day.
She crept silently through the stands, the darkness flowing from the books making the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She shivered involuntary, chastising herself for being silly. They were just books, nothing here could hurt her. She was alone, she told herself firmly. She was fine. Who would be in the library at four in the morning?
xxxx
He heard her before he saw her. She dropped a book, and cursed herself afterwards. He slipped through the stands to see who was there, only to see the back of a bushy head of hair.
Hermione Granger. She was friends with Potter. A Gryffindor. A Mudblood.
That was about all he knew about her, but the sight of her in the Restricted Section, standing amongst books of the darkest arts looking strangely comfortable, made his curiosity spike. What could she be looking for? He watched as she pulled book after book from the stands, flicking through the contents and discarding them, reaching for the next.
She turned a few times to check around her, and he wondered if she could feel the heaviness of his gaze. She seemed to grow further uncomfortable as time wore on, but he couldn't move his eyes off her. Her pale skin seemed to glow in the limited light, her eyes were alive as she read, and he felt a kinship of sorts, if only for a moment, with someone who seemed to enjoy the knowledge stored there as much as he himself did.
It was too soon when she started moving slowly away, but he knew she would be back. He would watch and wait for her to return, he knew. He told himself he needed to know just what it was she was looking for. He knew he was lying to himself. He didn't care.
xxxx
Someone was watching her. She could feel eyes on her but she couldn't see anyone whenever she looked around. She slid her wand from her sleeve into the fold of her hand, ready to pull properly should she need to defend herself. Concentrating on the books, she flipped through one after the other, finding nothing resembling what she was looking for.
Checking her watch, she found it time to leave. Carefully placing the books back where she found them, she edged away from the shelves. The feeling of eyes following her still remained, but she turned away and made her way slowly from the library, back to the safety of Gryffindor Tower, just in time to get back in bed and make her room mates believe she had been sleeping beside them all night.
She would return again in a few nights, after she had recovered the sleep she had missed, and she would look again. She would find what she was looking for before the end of the year. She had to, Harry's life may be at stake.
xxxx
Many nights followed in the same vein. He would watch her, and she would feel disembodied eyes on her. She stopped feeling so uncomfortable, and by January, she had grown to enjoy the feeling. She knew when whoever was watching her was there, and when they wasn't.
She wished she knew who had taken to watching her, if only to tell them that she didn't mind. She wanted to tell whoever it was that they were welcome to join her, welcome to read in the open. She wanted to tell them that they didn't have to hide any more.
He longed to come out into the open, to show her his true self. She had awakened a long thought dead desire for human contact, for human approval and admiration. He had taken to carrying an invisibility cloak with him to the library on his nightly jaunts, each night getting closer and closer to her. He could smell her scent, if he stretched a hand out he could be touching her. He wished he could touch her.
He wanted to know everything about her. He no longer pretended to be there for any other reason than to be in her presence. She was intoxicating to him.
xxxx
She sat at the table, immersed in a book. She had long since branched out from looking for the spell that prompted her to come here in the first place. The very nature of these books, though extremely dark, were very interesting to her, and she fell deeper and deeper into them.
He stood behind her, itching to touch her, to run his hands through her hair, to kiss the soft, pale skin on her neck, to see that same pale skin flush with excitement from his touch alone.
She felt him. A hand on her hair, so lightly it could have been a breeze, a slight movement in the air, a minuscule shift. She leant back into him, and he ran a hand through her hair to her neck. She sighed. He sighed.
The pleasure from such a small touch was unimaginable.
He slowly removed his cloak, standing behind her with a hand on her neck, waiting for her to turn, to look him in the eye. To run away screaming, if she had any sense.
"Who are you?" she asked softly, the sound of her voice seeming so loud in the always silent space between them.
"I'm... A friend," he murmured, and she nodded. She turned to face him, her eyes roaming all over, as she tried to find an identifiable feature on his face.
He lifted his hand to stroke her cheek, and she noted with wide eyes the look of wonder in his own.
"You've been here. Since the first time, I mean?" she asked, her own hand meeting his on her cheek.
He nodded, moving ever closer to her.
She blinked.
He stared.
Lips met.
Paradise.
xxxx
She knew. As soon as Harry explained what happened. Hermione knew. It had to be him. Her friend. Her lover, if one time could be called that. It was nice, to have a name to put to the face that haunted her dreams on a nightly basis. Barty Crouch Jr.
He hadn't been around for the last few weeks, and she wondered what had happened to him. He must have been busy. After all, it's no mean feat, resurrecting a Dark Lord. She inwardly scoffed at the very thought, before sobering at the reminder of what her friend had gone through. She was being selfish.
When Harry told her that Barty had been kissed, she gasped, a hand flying to her mouth. She knew what happened to those who suffered the fate of such a kiss. He didn't exist any more.
She knew she shouldn't care. She knew she should be glad he was gone, one less Death Eater in the world could only be a good thing, right? She knew she shouldn't, but that night, when she curled up in bed, she cried. She cried tears for the man she thought she knew. She cried tears for the one night of passion they shared. She cried tears for the nights she felt him watching her. She cried tears for the paradise lost.