Disclaimer: In its use of intellectual property and characters belonging to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, Bloomsbury Publishing, et cetera, this work of fiction is intended to be transformative commentary on the original. No profit is being made from this work.

Inspired by Elysium's beautiful blend, Delicate. I'm a big fan of Damien Rice so I just had to take up this image for Hawthorn & Vine's Reverse Challenge 2010. I mean, seriously, what a perfect combination: Draco, Hermione, and Damien Rice crooning in my ear while I typed.

Six Feet and Slipping

It's not that we're scared
It's just that it's delicate

- Damien Rice, Delicate

Out of the many things that Hermione would learn that sixth year at Hogwarts, one of the biggest lessons would be that everything became more pronounced when you're trying your hardest not to breathe. Her lips pressed awkwardly together to keep any sound from escaping while her nose twitched with the effort to quietly pull enough air in. All the muscles down her back had seized, stone-like, holding her as still as if she had been Petrified. The grip she had on her wand turned her knuckles white from the pressure, and she only squeezed harder when the footsteps stopped directly in front of her.

Not here, not here, she chanted even as she desperately thought of an excuse to give if her hiding place was found.

But her worrying was all for naught, and after another few moments of unbearable waiting and not-breathing on her part, Professor McGonagall's footsteps turned away from the tapestry Hermione hid behind and moved further down the hall. Hermione waited two minutes more to ensure some distance between her Head of House and herself before relaxing in slow, uncontrolled jerks. Blood rushed back to her lips and her back curved, allowing her to slump against the cold stone of the wall behind her. She pushed her hair off her forehead with a shaking hand.

Merlin, she couldn't do this again.

"Settle down, Granger. It gets easier every time."

She'd almost forgotten he was there behind her. Tucked away into the darkest corner of the alcove, he lit his wand with a soft lumos and stared at her in its light. He was stripped of colour everywhere except for the fading red on his cheeks. A sidelong glance told her that he hadn't bothered to button up his collar.

Hermione bit her lip at the sight. She wanted nothing more than to walk over and cover up the bruises that peppered his neck but instead, she held herself against the wall. Hoped that he couldn't see her fingers digging into the stone.

When he seemed content to sit and watch her watch him, she straightened. Her chin notched up enough that she could see the tip of her own nose. "You're apparently used to this then. That's all well and good, but there won't be a next time for us to find out."

"Like how tonight wasn't a 'next time'?"

Instead of answering him, she swallowed and instructed him to count to thirty before he left.

She was still on the Grand Staircase when Malfoy appeared, fifteen seconds early, turning right and down where she had turned left and up. Despite the high chance of getting caught by Peeves so late after curfew, she watched his progress down until he could no longer be seen.

To her dismay, "next time" turned out to be the following morning.

Dust motes floated lazily in the air, stirred up by the gold-coloured fringe of the tapestry as the heavy fabric was pulled back. The intruding sound of hungry students as they passed on their way to breakfast kept her stiff, and she wondered yet again why she mumbled her excuse to Harry about visiting the loo. Questioned why she was moving to sit down even as she was doing it. Her bottom had barely touched the oriel before a slash of light appeared where the tapestry was pushed aside and Malfoy strode in. He dropped his schoolbag in a heap somewhere at her feet and then he was shoving her back into their little nook, eyes screwed shut and teeth nipping at her lips.

She returned the pressure with her body for a minute—just as eager, just as desperate—before pulling her head back enough to break contact. His forehead pressed against her cheek for a moment, and she focused on his warm breath glancing off her neck. Perhaps she swayed towards him then, but she caught herself just before the tilt of his chin could recapture her mouth again. Her duck under the cage of his arms felt much too awkward and she was slow in getting back to the tapestry. One hand ran down the front of her robes while the other moved the fabric aside just enough to let her peek through.

When she felt safe enough to leave, Hermione looked back at him. He was sprawled out over the small bench where she had so briefly sat, too long and heavy to ever fit on it comfortably.

She wondered how much of that sprawl was real and how much conscious effort was put into the rest, fighting off centuries of pure Malfoy blood to get that spine of his to bend.

Her hand clutched at the neck of her school robe.

"Don't say it."

Three weeks later she was considering putting blinders on.

She had never gone out of her way to use the hallway in which the alcove was located, but she couldn't help but at least glance at it in passing now. The sparse stretch of carpeted stone meant something to her, even if her mind shied away from identifying what that something exactly was.

All she knew for certain was that it was strange. Strange and maybe even crazy to feel so highly aware of a place. Crushes, she understood. The jolt of knowing they were in the same room, the urge to look when she heard his laugh—that all made sense. But to feel the same compulsion about a stone and mortar—why do you use that hallway, Hermione, it's not even a shortcut—hole in the wallfelt off somehow, and it stuck out like a piece of shell in her scrambled eggs.

Or the only pale head of hair in a room full of the same shades of black and brown.

Harry chose that moment to scare her. "What are you thinking about, Hermione? Is it Malfoy?" He looked around for a moment before pulling her aside. He tilted his head toward her and lowered his voice. "He's been acting weird since the year started."

A fatal moment went by where she thought maybe she had spoken aloud, but Harry's face showed no disgust, only concern. For her and, albeit separately, for what Malfoy may be doing.

She imagined what face he'd make if he knew just how closely they were related and faded a little on the inside.

"No, Harry. Between my Prefect duties and homework, I haven't had much time to notice any changes in him—except for the fact that he's gotten even pointier." Hermione laughed then, the catch in her throat sounding overly bright to her ears but she made up for it by rolling her eyes and asking what brilliant potion he was going to use to trick Professor Slughorn today. "So does the Prince have anything left for you to copy, Harry? You've already surpassed your mother's greatness."

She didn't have to fake the disapproval that leaked into her voice.

And bitterness. She couldn't forget that.

Predictably, Harry bristled in defense and was sufficiently distracted. He shook his head and turned away as he was wont to do now whenever she brought up the book, and Hermione could once again breathe properly around her guilt.

Malfoy started their evening off by stating the obvious. "Something's bothering you."

"Really? Whatever gave you that idea?" Hermione turned on her heel and stomped the short distance to the other wall before repeating the entire process.

"Just a guess," he replied mildly. He twirled his wand through his fingers as she paced by him again. "It wouldn't have anything to do with Potter's newfound talents in Potions, would it?"

Before he even finished the question, Hermione was facing him, hands flying to the ends of her hair and tugging. "It has everything to do with Harry and his skills," she practically sneered the word.

She went on to grumble about books and princes (or some ponce name Prince) and integrity before suddenly turning to Malfoy again, one finger pointed at his nose. "You should be beating him. In your sleep. Why aren't you beating him?"

Curiously, she watched his eyes darken to lead before he responded.

"Think I'm better than him, do you?" He ignored her muttered not when it comes to modesty and continued. "That I'm more … naturally gifted?"

This last part was a bit muffled, and Hermione ruled the cause as being the tip of her finger being in his mouth. Her focus narrowed down to the feeling of his tongue as it traced the whirls on her fingertip.

Curl. Pull. Suck.

"Can't really say," she eventually replied. She turned her hand over and scratched the underside of his jaw softly. "You're the only one who's been willing to show me his … gifts." Her fingers stilled then. "Not even Ron."

He'd paused along with her but continued at the mention of the Gryffindor Keeper. He gave one last swipe to the pad of her finger before he was reaching for her hips.

"You know, Granger, if you had turned any harder, you'd have flashed me your knickers."

"That's real mature, Malfoy. Here I am, actually attempting a conversation, and you're zeroing in on my knickers."

When all he did was pull her closer and nod against her stomach, Hermione huffed out a breath hard enough to part his hair.

And let the distraction go.

There were nights—most of them, really—when they would argue and slap away the other's pointing finger. Some nights she would talk and talk and he would listen, but she would secretly think he wasn't listening at all.

And then there were those other nights when he would be reduced to monosyllabic responses, as if he didn't have the energy to piece together a full reply. Hermione noticed that, sometimes, they weren't even replies.

"Yes", "Fuck", "Time", "No", "Shit", "Broken", "Over."

It never made any sense.

Madame Pomfrey straightened, one hand bracing her back.

"You're in the best of health, Ms. Granger."

It was probably wrong—not to mention insulting—to question a healer's diagnosis but Hermione was pretty sure the older woman was wrong on this one.

"Really?"

"Really."

"But what of the sudden heart palpitations? My loss of concentration, the lack of appetite?"

"If you are suffering from some malady, it is not magical." Madame Pomfrey tapped her wand against the palm of her hand, muttering her symptoms as she looked the young woman over. She abruptly stopped mid-tap, and Hermione got the distinct impression that she was resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Have you ever liked someone, Ms. Granger?"

Liked...?

"As in like like?"

Madame Pomfrey did give in then. "Yes, as in like like."

He was one of only a handful of Slytherins who'd made it into the already small N.E.W.T. level Potions class.

And she hated it.

It wasn't the threat he posed academically to her top-of-every-class ambition. Hermione had no problems with acknowledging his skill in the discipline—which he had in spades.

No, it wasn't as simple as that.

If only it was as simple as that.

It was him.

Him and his long fingers chopping his ingredients and grinding the unicorn horn. Him and his taught since he could sit up perfect posture, and that near flawless profile, marred only by the slight downturn of his mouth.

And this was just from memory. Hermione didn't even want to think of what she'd notice if he was actually there.

"Another excellent example of the family talent, Mr. Potter."

Harry didn't meet her eyes as Slughorn happily swirled his Wart Begone potion for the entire class to see, but it wasn't for lack of trying.

She was turned away from him, too busy looking at the empty seat one table over.

"You weren't in Potions today," she said as he entered.

"And what of it?"

"Nothing, really," Hermione began, stopping as he made a cutting motion with his hand.

"So let's not discuss it."

"Why not?" She stood up as she asked. While their height had never been equal since fourth year, sitting down may as well be lying on her back with the way Malfoy was deliberately towering over her. "Talking this way isn't helping your cause."

"It doesn't matter. It's not any of your bloody concern, Granger." His warning was barely concealed, if at all. It went unheeded as she stepped nearly toe-to-toe with him.

"It doesn't matter," she threw his words back at him. "I'm making it my bloody concern."

Malfoy shook his head at her then and Hermione pulled up short. Without the usual distraction of his hands or his mouth on her, the illusion of near flawlessness failed. The one thing she had noticed all along, the unhappy tilt of his mouth, had just been a precursor. His face alone told her enough. A paleness borne not of breeding but rather the lack of eating and sun, tired lines bracketed his eyes and mouth, and, most telling of all, the bleak stare she'd only ever seen in the eyes of condemned Azkaban prisoners was now fixed on her.

Something was terribly wrong.

He must have felt he'd given her long enough to peel his layers back one by one, because Malfoy grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed until he'd backed her up against a wall. Hermione let him; there was no violence in the pressure of his hands. She could have easily shrugged him off. He let go of one shoulder to cover her eyes. Hermione blinked in the sudden darkness, eyelashes brushing his palm.

"Hermione, Hermione," he whispered; she felt the briefest touch of his lips on the corner of her mouth. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

It took her a moment to realize what he meant, but it hit her, blindsided her, soon after.

Like liking wasn't part of the rules.

The school year had ended abruptly with the fall of Dumbledore, and Hermione was back in the now questionable safety of her parents' home. War was knocking on her front door, and despite the knowledge of bigger, more important things happening than the small breaking of an adolescent heart, she couldn't help but think of him again.

"Hermione, Hermione."

In hindsight's perfect vision, it was the right decision to make that night the last of their meetings. He had given no verbal indication it was the end, but Hermione knew when they parted ways at the Grand Staircase. She had given up making him count to the thirty before leaving. He had never listened, and in all honesty, she'd wanted a last touch to remember him by. Perhaps, in some way, he'd wanted it too.

The terribly wrong thing she'd seen lurking in his eyes had showed itself with Lupin cradling his head in his hands and Harry, pale and devastated, speaking the words she was hoping to never hear.

"…and then Malfoy came through the door and Disarmed him—"

She wondered if she should feel a bit used. Had she been part of his mission? Distract the Mudblood so Potter could tie himself into knots on his own? Had his gasps, his murmurs of encouragement, been faked? Reason upon reason after the fact didn't help her any now.

And yet, when she'd half convinced herself to hate him like everyone else, Hermione would remember the last of their final exchange. The faded pleasure-pain of a barely there kiss on the corner of her mouth and words she now realized could have been meant for either of them.

"This wasn't supposed to happen."

In either case, Malfoy was right.