She's always been one for numbers. Facts, lines that meet up, logic that forms perfect circles of reasoning. The concrete and stationary is her native soil, the safety of the known and memorized and practiced.
He laughs at it and calls it hollow.
Maybe deep down she feels the same.
Why else would she cling to him? He is the sky, impulse and danger. He is unpredictable, infuriating, and challenging. They make no logical sense whatsoever. If a reason could be scrambled together for them to be together, she would have come up with it already.
It started as something disturbingly familiar in its eccentricity—nothing more then friction and touch. In that lack of emotion there was something familiar, mechanical, nothing dangerous or threatening because it felt like nothing. Just blowing off steam, grabbing ahold of some spark and riding the rush of fire.
It was, in an absurd way, as impassionate in its frenzy as the dry pages of her books.
It was meant to be short lived, a flame that roared to life on a bizarre whim and blew out with the relief of a base, physical desperation. But then they never figured out when to call it quits. They found excuses to be near each other, stole more and more innocent touches, drew comfort from running into the other.
Somehow it turned into something else entirely.
He began to notice things, her quirks and tendencies. They gradually became endearing. Across the hall her laugh would reach his ears and he would smile into his drink, though with the bitter pang of knowing it wasn't his. He would thread their fingers together discreetly whenever he could, craving even the slightest touch and soundless reassurance. It was ridiculous.
And in some highly unpredictable manner they began to change one another. She inspired strength in him, and though her ragged and sulked against her goody-two-shoes ways he found himself trying to be that knight in shining armor he knew she secretly dreamed about.
His attentions helped curb her previously insatiable need to prove herself a bit, though she still maintained perfect grades and was generally the same know it all she always had been.
They stole every moment they could together.
Every second was precarious, filled with unanswered questions. She leaned up and ghosted her lips across his chin, and he heard her silent panic, tightening his hold on her. No, he didn't know how he would tell his parents. He didn't know what the future held.
She drew back and fixed her pleading brown eyes on him and he bowed his head, pressing their warm foreheads close in the dim light, not meeting her insistent gaze.
I don't know…
Their passionate embrace softens into something sad and resigned. She sighs. The unknown frightens her above all else. She blinks back tears and tries to pull away, ashamed and blushing and wanting to be alone away from him to just think and reason and work things out without him warm and solid in her arms. Complicating things.
But they've been here before and he knows exactly what she's doing as she attempts to disengage and pull away from him, ducking her head so he can't see the gathering storm. He grabs her and drags her close, enveloping her small form.
She struggles, mumbling some protest, then buries her face in his neck. He feels the damp, salty drops soak through his shirt.
They're a mess.
They both knew it, but here they were again, holding each other. Hating that they know each other better then they know themselves.
He buried his face against her unruly mass of curls, breathing in the smell of her shampoo. It was a strange comfort, as he patted the soft but gnarly strands back and playing with them. The storm would break for them soon. They would slip, they would be caught, and they would both have to face the reality of what they had done.
What they were continuing to do.
They both felt the apprehension, and it was like an unseen noose being drawn tighter every day. Something would give soon.
"Do you wish this had never happened?" she whispered against his neck, breath hot and laced with a sob.
Every damn day.
He left her question unanswered, planted a kiss on her temple.
"I do," she admitted, struggling to keep her voice from cracking. She balled the fabric of his robes in her fists as she fought the urge to do something, anything—violent, passionate, desperate, panicking. He tipped her off balance, kept her foundering for solid ground in the fog. "I'm so sick of all this."
Time spun out of their control as they held each other, not knowing how to let go.
"What do you want?" he asked, his tone chill. She hates that every time they try to talk about these things he feels so cold to her. It feels like such a lie when his heart races beneath her ear, his skin warm and comforting beneath her touch.
I don't know…
She sniffles, quietly, shoulders heaving in resignation.
Out there in the world she stands on her own, battles for what she believes. She doesn't need anybody to look out for her. She fights with skill and great depths of knowledge on technique and has a knack for catching people off guard.
She doesn't need him to protect her.
Back among his peers and comrades he is sharp and an undisputed leader. He wields power in his house despite the fall of his father and family name outside the walls, and carries himself with a pride and arrogance that he refuses to let anyone strip away from him.
He doesn't need her to save him.
But in the quiet and the dark and the silence she sinks into his arms and he shields her against the unknown out there in the night.
And she likes being watched out for.
And he feels a little less empty.
"What do you want?" He repeated the question, stroking her back to make up for the softness he can't bring across in his voice.
"Something solid," she whispered despondently, threading her fingers in the hair at the back of his neck. "How long are we gonna do this?"
"Hey, I don't exactly see you jumping up to tell all your friends about me," he chuckled dryly, the faintest tinge of a sneer dragging at the corners of his mouth.
"Are we just screwing around, Draco?" she asked, staring blankly at the dark wall as she rested her cheek against his chest.
She felt him tense, and he moved away. A strong hand gripped her chin and forced her to meet his calculating eyes. "I thought we'd both stopped bullshitting ourselves with the fantasy that this was nothing more then a hormonal fling, eh?" He tilted his head to the side, expectantly awaiting her answer as he kept her head tilted to face him.
"I know," she said finally, dropping her eyes a moment and then meeting his steadfastly. "But where does that leave us?"
She's always been one for strategy.
Draco chuckled, lowering his head and catching her lips in a kiss. "Always asking questions, Miss Granger."
He was the sort of guy who liked to take things as they came.
She lost herself in the rush, tightening her hold on him as she molded her mouth to his. Her hands clasped behind his neck as she drew herself up, pressing close and smiling as the now delightfully familiar shudder coursed through her. They dragged comfort and security out of each other, in the pulsing of their hearts and the sweet oblivion of sensation.
"Soon, Hermione," he murmured against her cheek as they came back down to earth. "Just give me a little longer to figure out what I'm gonna do when it all goes to hell, alright?"
She started in surprise at the declaration, focusing her intense gaze on his, searching for truth in his words. "You promise?" she asked, hesitantly.
"If I could quit you, I would've a long time ago," he grinned boyishly, hair mussed by her questing fingers.
She's always been one for maps, plotting out each step. She likes it when the pieces fit together perfectly and everything goes according to plan.
But as he clasps her hand in the empty corridor, she thrills at the uncharted and her heart races with the promise of the unknown.
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Alright, thought I'd give you all something dramatic/cute to make up for lack of fluff thus far in The Theory. But, I'm pleased to announce, Eros is getting his arrows back in the coming chapter. Woot.