Disclaimer: Seeking no money, making no money. It's all for the - mmmgood - pleasure.
A/N: This is something I wrote quickly with no intentions of posting, but I decided to anyway. This occurs in the summer following the events of HBP and is meant to be a strongly implied Draco/Hermione. Reviews welcome.
Her Only Comfort
Cold rain dampened Hermione's face to the extent where she could no longer separate her own streaming tears from the mingling precipitation. Her red eyes burned furiously, her lips swollen, her heart broken. She looked up at the sky, marveling at the beautiful light gray of the heavens - a color that was familiar to her memories. Too familiar, in fact.
A new fresh onslaught of tears escaped recognizable to Hermione only by the saccharine taste upon her lips, as she punctured her bottom lip with her teeth, slightly picking up on the salty flavor as her tongue attempted to moisten her lips: a foolish task indeed as raindrops continually fell.
She stood upon the grounds of her former home and school; her favorite place in the world had been ripped from her partially because of him. How could she manage to care about someone who would attempt such horrors? When had she become mental enough to be worthy of committal to St. Mungo's?
Her thin t-shirt was drenched, clinging to her cold, clammy skin. Unnoticed to her, she was trembling feverishly from the chill pervading through her bones, but she honestly didn't separate the rain's numbing of her skin from the frozen state of the blood pumping through her veins. Her emotional and physical chill were inseparable entities: one-in-the-same.
Hermione Granger stood sullen and still as a statue, soaked to the bone by the chilly October air, soaking in the aftermath of great devastation. Seeking comfort within the stone walls of Hogwarts was not a consideration; the thought didn't permeate her mind. She was apathetic to physical discomfort as her other worries were quite more severe.
Her mind could barely acknowledge the beginning of this insane debacle. Her emotions, somehow both paralyzed, yet frantically moving, had no end nor beginning. Her mind was an endless myriad of contradictions. She felt fanatical, insane even, as if she has been poisoned by a slowly infiltrating disease that had suddenly been maximized ten-fold. Normally she would consider an antidote – albeit metaphorical – but she highly doubted one existed. Perhaps it was impending pessimism or just cruel rationality on her part. Hermione wasn't sure.
If only Ron could see her now; if only he knew. What would he and Harry say once they had returned from meeting Zacharias Smith, expecting her to hand over another Horcrux, only for them to discover it had disappeared? Not only that, but Draco had vanished without a trace. Where would they begin looking for him? How could she cope if they couldn't….?
The hoot of an owl brought her attention back down to earth. Her heart leapt. But the owl that not an eagle owl, nor was it even carrying a missive of any sort. No, just a barn owl.
It had stopped raining.
Hermione still stood there with a slight frown, puffy eyes, matted brown hair, and skin as pale as porcelain.
Once again she glanced upwards, resolutely promising herself that it would be the last time she cried over him. The cloudy sky was her only comfort. She didn't bother to ask herself why.