Her nostrils were filled with that musty book smell of the library. His were filled with that sweet citrus smell of her hair.
"Why are we here?"
"To study." Her hair was a poof pulled away from her face in a loose white scrunchy. His hair was neatly combed and in place.
"…It is Saturday. Surely you are jesting."
"No one said you had to follow me here. You did that on your own accord."
The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. Marcus Flint was pouting.
"Why do I follow you around like a lost puppy?" he pulled his sweater tight around him. He was cold.
"Because I'm witty and stunningly beautiful?" her monotone voice was not amusing. Her milquetoast attitude of late was simply not amusing him. His primitive features fell into a frown.
"No." He grabbed her chin, his rough hand easily jerked her to face him. Dark gray eyes studied her. After a few moments of his analysis he announced, "You look like innocence."
"Why is it that you follow me? You are not answering your own question."
He ignored her and continued. "You look like daffodils in the sun. You look like newborn kittens playing with a ball of yarn in the grass."
"Is that what I look like? I should consider wearing a bit more makeup then."
He looked at her with an expression that clearly stated 'I am not joking'. By now he was standing beside her pulling her up to stand next to him by her upper arm.
"You look like a baby wrapped in silk. You look like peace." He shoved her against a stack of books, a few falling from the top. The noise of the volumes smacking the floor went unnoticed. "You look like bliss."
"You look like dirty gutter water." She began to play along. "You look like revulsion. You look like prejudice. You look like a war torn third world country. You look like a starving and abused puppy."
He growled.
"You look like everything I should hate. You look like fear. You look like my nightmares. You look like death." Their noses were touching. She was breathing her words into his soul. "You look like the absence of emotion."
His fingers were gripping her arms so tight she was sure that it would leave a mark. "You look like safety. You look like a ladybug sunbathing on a blade of grass." His voice had dropped to a whisper and he buried his face in her hair, inhaling. She was trembling, she wasn't sure how any of this had come about.
One day they were enemies. One day Flint decided to stalk her. One day they were having an angry cuddle against books in the library.
A copy of Quidditch Through the Ages was digging into the small of her back. Marcus' finger nails were digging into her arms.
"Who are you? Answer only if you can tell the truth." She begged him to make eye contact. He was silent.
"Who are you?" She didn't like to repeat herself.
"You don't want to know."
"I do."
"No."
Hermione did not respond well to 'no' especially when it was spoken in such a harsh tone.
His thigh was touching her thigh. They were both painfully aware of the contact.
"Who are you?" She asked again. She didn't feel bad when she saw pain was the prominent emotion in his stormy eyes.
"Don't ask me that." He hissed in her ear bringing his head to rest on her shoulder. She was tired of standing in the library. She was tired of this room. She was tired of Marcus Flint.
"Tell me."
"No."
"I will keep it a secret."
"No."
"Cross my heart."
"No."
"Hope to die."
"No."
"Stick a needle in my eye."
"You look like hope." His head was still resting on her shoulder. His hands were still clutching her arms.
"I grow tired of this game."
"I am not playing a game." He willed her to understand. He knew that she could not. "I am everything you should be afraid of."
"I am not afraid of you. Why would I be afraid of you? You are a little boy trying to play the part of a soldier."
"I wish you were afraid. You should be afraid. Your blind bravery is dangerous. It will get you killed. I do not want to see you dead. Hope should not die."
She slapped him.
He felt heat on his face. Heat in the shape of a hand. Heat in the shape of her hand. It felt like comfort. It felt like being alive.
He kissed her. She kissed him back.
His hands were no longer clutching her viscously but tenderly wrapped around her petite waste.
"You taste like love." He murmured against her lips.
"You taste like hate."
"Do you mean that?" He nuzzled her neck.
"You don't want to know my answer to that question."
He took the white scrunchy out of her hair. He tucked it into his right pocket. He gave her his handkerchief. "Promise me you will keep it with you. The next time I see you will not be in the most pleasant conditions. I want to know that you have it with you. I want you to promise me."
"I can't."
"Promise me." He pushed it into her left palm.
"Okay."
"Say it."
"You look like a broken promise." She whispered. He pushed her against the books not taking care to be gentle.
"Don't say that!" He roared. "Don't go to war without it. Please. Just remember me."
"I…"
"You will wear it in your shirt and when I am slaughtering your comrades you will remember that it is not me committing those murders. And I will know that you know and it will comfort me. I will need the comfort because I am going to die."
"Don't say that."
He was shaking.
"I promise I will keep it with me." She uttered under her breath.
One last bruising kiss. He walked away.