A/N: Sorry for taking forever to update this story. Haven't forgotten about it, I swear.
Slow response, I'm feeling like an afterthought
I guess I'm kind of lost in space
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Two days was all it took for him to notice a change.
The symptoms included Hermione Granger having to prop her head up by the palm of her hand during classes. She haphazardly took notes with sleep deprived eyes that made all her scribbling nearly illegible. Even regular meals had become cumbersome for all the attention she paid to whatever book happened to be in her hands at the time.
Somewhat worried as he did with all things that concerned her, Harry Potter made an effort to look after her. Discretion was key, seeing as their previous meetings had been disastrous. He blamed his own tactlessness and figured that any overt actions on her behalf would be greeted with irritation.
Between raiding the library after hours one night and very late reading sessions the previous night, she was beyond exhausted. And while he could see her fatigue in dark circles, he also noted the determination burning in her eyes. She read at a dangerous nonstop pace between classes and didn't bother wondering how, despite being engrossed in reading material, she miraculously didn't bump into moving classmates. She seemed oblivious to a seemingly invisible intervention of random students being subtly pulled by their school robes, nudged to either side of a packed corridor or mysterious cases of inexplicably dropped book bags to keep moving obstacles out of her way.
Even if she was keeping him out, he reasoned his method of keeping her from walking into potentially risky situations was a way to keep her in relative safety during her period of intensive concentration. She barely touched any food at meals and walked along in what seemed absolute absentmindedness, he noted with concern. Asking Dobby or any of the house elves to leave any food in her room was out of the question, as she still vehemently opposed having them work without pay or freedom.
He would find a way around her argument eventually, sneaking into the kitchen under the pretense of hall duty and learning a similar spell to make food apparate beside her books when she studied in the common room.
Despite her general neglect on things like eating or sleeping, she was remarkably well dressed every morning. Impeccable almost, if not for the telltale tangled hair, which she hid by pinning up in a messy bun with a pencil to hold in place. He found he liked the way her hair framed her face when the wayward strands escaped from the impromptu hairstyle.
Whether he had realized it or not, he was buying time to try to figure out what it was that tethered him to her so.
Her research turned up little in the early phases of that investigation as mounting frustration gnawed at her insufferably. Memory and ties burrowed into her thoughts, taunting her with riddles.
Seeking answers, he'd said to her. He'd found her weakness and another scheme to keep them bonded, even if for a bit longer. The demons this time were directed inward rather than villains to be stopped for the sake of others.
She fully intended on exploiting all materials available to her before leaving as evidenced by how obsessed she'd become in the questions he'd posed, forcing her to look deeper into something she would have otherwise left alone. The late nights didn't bother her as much as she would have thought, finding the quiet the best time to absorb any meaning derived from printed words. While the daylight was bothersome to her eyesight, she found it easy to ignore all the extra noise brought on by footsteps and general conversation of everyday life.
In time, she would have answers for them both.
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The time for all people to face their fears came in some way or another. Ron Weasley swallowed the last of his pumpkin juice and steadied himself with a deep breath.
Have courage, man, he thought as the morning routine led him to the second class of the day.
A familiar head of brown hair from across the room called to him through a brief flash of memory. He remembered the soft feel of it between his fingers once upon a time. And perhaps, once more he would be able to relive it.
Before the final bell rang to announce the start of class, he made his way to the final seat in the second row of the history classroom. He had it on good authority (the constant observation since the first day of term) that the object of his constant musing tended to doze off during the lectures.
As predicted, she arrived appearing half asleep while rubbing her left eye as she fought to stay alert. She paused momentarily seeing him take the ordinarily vacated seat in that corner of the room.
Her bag came down on the left side of the chair, as he had seen her do countless times. Parchment and quill emerged between her fingertips, poised just in time to hear Professor Binns discuss the historical inaccuracies of Muggle fairy tales.
Her hand buried in her hair, Lavender Brown discreetly took a nap as her dark bangs disguised her sleepless eyes. A gentle slap against her arm shook her sufficiently enough to look around. A sloppily folded triangle lay inert beside her elbow when her head bobbed downward, knocking her out of that tentative slumber.
A discreet look at her former boyfriend revealed no answers. He continued taking notes with the same bored expression as every other student, minus Hermione. That girl had the most frightening adoration for all things scholarly, Lavender noted.
Her eyes followed Patil Parvati, who giggled at something her sister wrote on the margins of her notes.
She unfolded the piece of paper, smiling a bit in recollection of how she had once done the same for the boy sitting beside her. Old love letters and silly newspaper clippings she found interesting were presented as gifts, which she was sure had been trashed somewhere along the way of his adventures. He'd gone and grown up in faraway places to see who knows what kinds of things, leaving her alone. He'd fulfilled his dream of being an actual hero instead of just pretending to be one.
She wasn't especially sad at that, only worried about his health and relieved that he'd come back breathing and in one piece upon returning to school. The frivolous relationship that had once gone on between them had been a bit childish, what with her jealousy and his lack of seriousness. Still, the laughter and affection had been real.
Three questions were written down on the paper and she was fairly certain of the identity of the author.
You. Me. Halloween dance.
What do you say?
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Two skipped meals in a day.
Harry didn't feel the hunger, ignoring the growls when some part of his anatomy cried for nourishment. He'd gone through worse, he figured. Days out between battlefields, reconnaissance and intense training that had been far, far worse.
Again, she was offering her part in solving whatever puzzle he presented her. Guilt gnawed at his insides uneasily, wondering what twist in their friendship had changed them so. She was the incarnation of devotion and he couldn't find reasons not to want her to stay and promise not to leave.
He drew the line of self imposed fasting when the telltale sign of dizziness reminded him of starvation. Two hours after dinner had been served, he made his way to the kitchen which continued to be run by house elves, (much to her dismay as he knew).
His long fingers tickled the pear painting and the kitchen door opened.
"Harry Potter!" Dobby greeted him enthusiastically, appearing to pop out of the wall. "So nice of you to visit."
The elf regaled him with chatter and gossip of other elves. Harry politely tuned him out, nodding every so often while his mind was heavy with possibilities of things Hermione might have found.
"Do you want to sit with Harry Potter's friend?"
"Huh?" was his intelligent question.
Dobby moved to one side and gestured with an arm to the table, where a familiar head of hair lay on the mahogany surface. He couldn't begin to guess how long she'd kept up the routine, if at all.
The seat beside Hermione afforded him a view of an open book beneath a partly closed fist. The page she found as a stopping point regarded a chapter on memory and eye witnesses. She looked at ease while asleep in the midst of the bustle for meal preparation. It was an oddly familiar sight, comforting in a way. She'd been so adamant about cooking during the summer as he remembered too well.
"How long has she been here?" he asked quietly, his eyes not leaving her.
Dobby's fingers covered his chin, considering.
"About an hour," he replied. "She didn't look up from her book."
Typical behavior as of late, it seemed. A faint smile appeared on his face. He carefully slipped the thin book from under her hand. Her fingers twitched slightly, but she didn't make another move. The cover didn't tell him much.
"Dreams and Recollections," he muttered to himself.
She'd been reading a chapter on dreams regarding symbolism, recurring images and past events. He frowned, unsure of what it was supposed it to mean.
"She had chicken soup," Dobby offered without having been asked.
"I'll have what she's having," Harry said.
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Neville Longbottom noted how Ginny Weasley paid attention to the notes he provided her for the forthcoming exam in herbology. Rather than the usual distracted look that tended to glaze her stare over, the focused stare was a drastic change. The auburn shade of her hair burned like burnished copper in the light of the fireside.
Her concentration held steady as he went over the side effects of marine plants.
"Lotus leaves typically don't have magical properties despite the popularity of its practical use, but can get rid of unpleasant aftertaste of certain potions like Veritaserum and have been falsely associated with drugging properties in mythology," he droned on. "Gillyweed, which is sometimes confused for kelp, is for temporary underwater breathing."
Her eyelid twitched twice at the reminders she didn't want to see of the boy she never stopped regarded as the hero. Frustration ripped through her stomach and was quietly suppressed through sheer willpower.
"Tricolor seaweed provides a golden shade to any potion used, with the most common use being—"
"Felix Felicis," she interrupted, not looking up during her hurried scribbling. She regretted her minor outburst and intended to stay quiet, finding his voice soothing when they spent time in tutoring sessions.
"Correct," he told her.
While he contemplated her mood, neither one saw Hermione clutching the front of Harry's shirt as she slept in his arms. She was carried her to bed virtually unnoticed through the mercifully deserted corridors and the otherwise empty common room.
A smile touched Harry's lips when he lay her down. Her stubborn grip would not let go of his tie and he spent several minutes carefully prying her fingers before slipping off her shoes.
She groaned softly in her sleep, unconsciously reaching out into the empty space of the mattress. Her fingers fell on his and she stilled while he contemplated the angle of her chin for a moment from the edge of the bed.
Discreetly, he pulled the book he found her reading earlier from his pocket and slipped it under her pillow.
"Sweet dreams," he mumbled and kissed her hair.
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Hermione was not sure how she arrived in her bed. The last time she recalled being conscious was while eating a pumpkin tart before the enormous weight of her eyelids forced her to rest her vision for a few minutes. Long moments, it seemed, as the pitch black emptiness of her room could attest.
The uniform dug in uncomfortably around her waist, her circulation interrupted by the awkward angle in which she lay. She shifted around, rolling to one side to better reach the button on her skirt. Before hitting the surface of the mattress, the pair shoes had come off somehow before being burrowed in the warmth of the blankets. She slid out of her clothes with the least movement possible and forgot to think anymore as the comforting darkness obscured her senses pleasantly.
She saw two pairs of eyes looking at her in the reflection of shiny glass. Warm hazel and vibrant green glowed with pride. Her eyes left them for a moment, heart full of something she couldn't quite describe adequately as affection. There was a distinct feeling of being left desperately wanting certain things, one of them being a sense of belonging. While no jealousy was present, the overwhelming need for love, approval and guidance was also there, leaving her on the point of acute heartache.
Lily and James Potter would always be beyond anyone's reach.
A look to the right and she saw a girl wearing her skin with chocolate eyes and a head of soft dark honey hair. Bright emerald stared back under a mess of black hair in the mirror when her eyes leveled directly her gaze ahead. Fingers entwined between two hands, not letting go.
She looked above the arch where the metallic frame began on the Mirror of Erised, her heart stuttering incoherently.
She woke up feeling disoriented in the early sun's daylight and didn't get out of bed until the room stopped spinning.
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The first thing Harry noticed was how she didn't arrive for half the classes. It jolted him from his sleep deprived stupor faster than a caffeine rush. He'd noticed how she hadn't arrived for the first one and successively skipped out on the next two. In all the time they'd been in school together, she'd never missed class. Well, except for the few weeks which she was petrified by the basilisk's reflection, but that had been an entirely different matter.
Instead of a random monster attack, the first thing that came to mind was thought of her finally snapping.
But it seemed unlikely. She loved learning to a crippling degree that made him marvel and their classmates cringe at the thought of her devotion.
He remembered the meeting earlier that week with McGonagall. He heard snippets about an agreement, something about a predetermined time and conditions.
Despite himself, he began scribbling her name in his notebook. H-e-r. Her. Hogwart's woudn't be the same without her.
He figured she might eventually attend a university, perhaps with an interest in history and mythology. It was no wonder she never fell asleep in during Professor Binn's class. He saw her at Cambridge or even Oxford—someplace with a meaningful reputation for serious scholars and nothing less. He could picture her studying in an enormous library, pulling all-nighters, writing papers far in advance of deadlines and making valedictorian upon graduation. Maybe she'd meet some extremely intelligent scientist or another sort of genius that would understand her in the way he couldn't. She'd be happy and live some blissfully boring existence without threat of death or danger. She'd be in love with a stranger who didn't know what it meant when she pouted while reading something that caught her interest or her impulsive need to explain something useful.
He could only guess that she thirsted for normality and anonymity. She deserved to go someplace away from him and the shadows that he'd unwittingly cast in her life.
His gloomy understanding of her possible intentions carried him through potions class, where he mixed ingredients mechanically, not minding the puffs of smoke that erupted from time to time and stung his eyes, sometimes making it hard to breathe in a bit of clean air.
He needed better defenses against her, he figured. Harry could deal with an evil wizard stalking him his entire life. It was being denied the attention of the person he most wanted that he couldn't take.
He stuffed books and parchments absentmindedly into his bag when he noticed everyone walking out from yet another class. The note McGonagall had slipped him with his returned assignment on efficient magical procedures went unread as his mind was consumed with variations of Hermione's near future between footsteps toward the afternoon brightened hallway.
And then he saw her.
Just outside the door, she was leaning against the opposite wall, the strap of her book bag held tightly between her fists. Dark eyes searched him, uncertain, but determined.
They didn't exchange words, but he understood she meant for him to follow her steps.
He knew he always would, just as she had done for him.
So he did.
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The creases in the paper were a mystery he intended to decipher. Tiny valleys and indelible crinkles fascinated Ronald Weasley, who intended on replicating the same folds that made up old letters, all random thoughts and intermittent dreams sprawled on numerous pages.
Inspiration struck as he stood up with a half formed idea hitting him lightning-quick. He guessed that Hermione's influence was finally making an impression on him, as he found himself being drawn out the door of his room.
The rare impulse propelled his feet forward to the library.
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Hermione handed him what seemed to be half of a bookshelf's contents as they made their way through an aisle. The heavy load filled his arms, which he carried without complaint.
"This looks interesting," she commented, pulling on the spine of a red leather bound book.
The Mind's Eye, he read on the cover as she laid it on the growing pile.
"Umm," Harry began, unsure of how to question to her method. "What exactly are we looking for?"
She seemed to ignore him, as she moved further along the reference section. He followed after her, watching how her fingers traced along the rough and smooth textures of different coloured book spines.
She paused midway between Methods for Interpreting Neolithic Runes and Magical Dream Retrieval.
"You need to read up on this as well," she stated simply. "If we're to find answers."
He nodded.
"Light reading?" he tried.
"Not by a long shot," she replied. "We both want answers and we have to look everywhere."
The books didn't feel very heavy in his arms. She was using plural. She was including him. Finally. He saw an opening.
"So I've been thinking," he started. "When are you supposed to meet with McGonagall?"
Her hand stopped skimming the canvas surfaces of oversized reference books and landed atop a massive encyclopedia whose title he didn't bother to read.
"Not sure," she replied. "She hasn't contacted me for any more conferences. And you?"
The volume stayed between her hands, fingers drumming mutely over the canvas cover. She looked over her shoulder at him, studying his face. He looked up from her shoes to those inquisitive eyes.
"Nothing here either," he lied.
A slight pinch appeared between her brows as she hummed quietly under her breath. For the first time in their long friendship, she doubted him.
Ron stared at the reunited pair with something like amazement in his eyes when he walked in the library and spotted his friends checking out a small hill of books.
Sidestepping them completely, he focused on searching for the title of a particular book.
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The mandatory tutoring sessions were not going well for Luna Lovegood.
He arrived fifteen minutes late to his tutoring lesson. Deliberately, she already knew from his reluctant demeanor.
She wasn't exactly sure how she'd agreed to it in the first place, but having to explain divination arts to Draco Malfoy wasn't going as smoothly as she wanted. As with Trelawney, he tended to ignore what she had to say, barely taking the time to jot down any notes relating to the lessons in class. It wasn't going to be easy, she knew, but grew slowly exasperated with all the non-progress she appeared to be making.
Page 174 was actively ignored of two copies of Divining the Future atop the velvet red tablecloth by two sets of eyes. Draco's fingers drummed inaudibly on the soft surface in quick succession. A card deck in her hands was being shuffled softly in her hands, as she attempted to explain card layout for the fifth time.
"Celtic cross," she said aloud.
She breathed in silently, retaining her serenity as she laid down individual cards on the table. She pointed to the first card.
"The first card to be placed is the…?" she trailed off.
"Significator," he drawled.
"Good," she smiled encouragingly. "What does it mean?"
He scowled inwardly.
"The personality of the querent," he replied, somewhere between bored and annoyed as the knight of pentacles stared at the ceiling.
Luna's eyebrow quirked upward. For the past hour, she thought his lack of response to anything hadn't told her much on what areas to help him improve. Trelawney hadn't offered much in the form of advice, simply waving her off in the classroom's direction and saying she had homework to grade when Luna arrived with questions.
She placed the deck directly at his fingertips.
"Continue with the rest of the layout," she instructed.
His index finged ended the final stride on the table, stopping the drumming immediately as a steely grey glare fixed on her. The initial six cards on the table were set dead center.
He pointed to the five of swords .The lovers and three of cups turned up reversed as the next cards turned.
"Decisions need to be made, something about an admirer," he said. "Romantic problems and that nonsense."
She heard him mutter something else about silly girl problems.
He stared at the spread, which were turned, but mostly uninformative as he looked at the three most prominent cards. A question formed on the tip of his tongue and although words failed him, she noted the uncomfortable curiosity lingering in his eyes.
Four cards were placed along the edge of the table. Again, the fortune directed a future of miscommunications and arguments—the same circular situations which would inevitably make him dizzy. The eight of swords was the final card he revealed upon turning it over.
"Confusion and working through problems, especially with loved ones," he drawled out. "A long term commitment, hard work paying off and happily ever after shit. A bloody fairy tale in the making."
A frown etched across his forehead as he looked over the spread carefully. Reputation and relationships were listed in the cards, all rather uncannily familiar. Pansy Parkinson came to mind, all soft skin and aloof indifference, which attracted him so. She tended to be the only person to understand him, not simply following orders like Crabbe and Goyle, but going along in her own direction which somehow intersected with him.
"Wait," he paused, pointing to the first card, the knight of pentacles turned upward. "Who is this reading for?"
The answer came as that annoying smile appeared, lifting her lips incomprehensively halfway on her face. He found himself wishing he could hex that damn expression off her face.
Glowing eyes, gentle comprehension stabbed at him like porcupine needles. But unlike Potter, he couldn't just take his wand out and curse her with due reason, no matter how justified it was to him.
"A person who is initially cautious in relationships but eventually finds the person he is supposed to be with," she explained.
No. He would prove her wrong.
Because she was wrong.
Both hands opened flat with alarming force on the table's surface. The slam did not make her blink. The resounding ring of the clock striking five o'clock interrupted their session. It also meant the biweekly house head meetings was about to start.
He didn't need Luna to tell him about his love life. Pansy was not the end-all of his relationships, he was sure. If anything, she was a starting point and he was sure there were plenty more conquests to drag through the sheets of his bed. There had to be.
Anger coloured his vision to an especially dark blood red hue. She noted the vein near his temple pop out as his teeth ground together painfully. The Malfoys didn't depend on gypsy tricks to know what the future would become for them. They were leaders, born to make changes occur, make up the rules of the game and win (translation: cheat without a hint of scruples).
They weren't supposed to be figured out like a damned puzzle that needed to be put together. He had stopped trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong and was beyond trying to make any sense of what the hell he was supposed to do. Luna wasn't supposed to be leading him in the right direction or try to change him, as he'd heard women often tended to do. His life did not revolve around deciphering the vague meaning of horoscopes and other people's intentions. Do or do not was the unofficial family motto, and one that he followed because it made sense.
An impromptu plan formed. The initial scowl and deep set frown was replaced with a flashing smile.
Her expression did not change despite the obvious display of malice he intended to pursue. He didn't let her see how she irritated him so with a look that practically dared him to go through with it.
Let it never be said a Malfoy backed down from a challenge.
He raced to the meeting.
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The meeting began promptly five minutes after the clock rang.
Rather than sitting in the usual north corner, Draco managed to find a seat behind his intended victim. He could feel Luna's eyes boring into him even if she wasn't looking directly at him (as far as his peripheral vision could inform him).
For the first time since he was posted as Head Boy of Slytherin, he noted the distance between his sometimes rivals from Gryffindor. Two thirds of the Golden Trio weren't on good terms. Granger sat in front of him, devotedly playing the party of the consummate student while Potter was on the opposite side of the room, although not quite as diligent at paying attention.
The students listened to the updates from professors McGonagall and Slughorn on changes the ministry had made. The oral reports on their patrol duties went along at a snail's pace, stagnating the impulse of his resolve for a moment. At the sound of Granger's voice and the sight of McGonagall's apparent disapproval of some occasional harshness in subtracting points, he perked up.
Somehow, he'd failed to notice how she had a penchant to break the rules she herself followed. It was a pattern that began with Potter and had managed to disintegrate in the course of the term.
His left hand covered up a smirk as she blandly recited her version of the events.
Luna did not shift in her seat beside Harry.
Although Draco should have been disgusted with himself on some level of even touching a mudblood, he was beyond giving a damn. She represented the perfect opportunity to prove that she was just like any other girl. Boring. Normal. Not special. An ordinary witch with too much time on her hands spent on books and meaningless obscure information.
Despite his lack of attraction to her, he was showing that no girl meant more to him than the next one in line. And who better than one of his sworn enemies to make that point loud and clear?
He waited as she gathered her things, which took less than a minute, but felt longer due to his impatience.
"Fuck it," he muttered to himself.
It took less than five steps to wind around the table and stand directly in front of her when she finally turned around. Her puzzled look was perfect—bewildered and unsure. He didn't bother to look at her eyes as he steeled himself for the next move.
For all his effort in attempting to keep Hermione safe, Harry did not see this coming until it was too late.
Like a man about to jump into the deep end of a pool, Draco took a deep breath and leaned in. Shock registered and widened her eyes, but the rest of her was rendered paralyzed as she merely stood as an object of fascination for an audience of her peers and professors alike.
He made no other contact with her as he kissed her lips gently. Nothing at all like with Pansy who was all teeth and a rough slide of lips, he thought as he unwittingly made the comparison. Apples and oranges and all that.
Harry's breath caught at the surreal vision of Hermione and Draco. He felt something holding him back from completely murdering Malfoy on sight. Luna had taken hold of both arms, preventing him from pointing his wand anywhere.
Still, Luna knew Draco would not leave completely unscathed.
Hermione's reaction once again reminded Harry that he was not wanted. She didn't need a bodyguard. She was strong enough to take care of herself.
The last thing Draco saw was Hermione's fist in his face. He had failed to account for the right hook she had once presented him four years earlier.
The lesson of the day: there was no clean getaway.
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Ginny noted the determined look in Harry's eyes when he bolted past her in the hallway. She wasn't able to deduce much from the momentary appearance before he barked a password to the fat lady's portrait and marched to the common room without so much as a word to anyone else.
The news, considered at first too fantastic to be true, would reach her ears in roughly five minutes, considered average time with most scandals.
She didn't see him for the remainder of the day, unsure if that was a good or bad thing. She was able to breathe a little easier, nonetheless, at the lack of his presence.
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She lay down, facing the fading orange light cut across the smooth white ceiling. A light knock at the door. The fading headache returned, as did the arm to cover the top half of her face. The light behind two eyelids turned from a dull red to a faded black.
She didn't answer.
A moment's hesitation. Waiting, as usual.
Steps made themselves heard as she made an effort to breathe coherently.
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.
A dip in the mattress moved her to the side slightly.
"You alright?"
Concern.
"Hermione," he tried again.
"I'm going to commit murder," she stated. "And soon."
No laughter. Not even a chuckle.
"I don't blame you," he said calmly. "If Malfoy did that to me, I'd have done the same."
Her arm moved from covering her eyes to propping her up. Vibrant red colored the inside of her lids once more before she snapped them open. Green irises filled her vision, the exact opposite of what she had seen a moment ago. He met her eyes evenly.
"The fact that no one took points off is a good thing, don't you think?" he tried. "It means everyone thinks you were right to do what you did."
Something flammable coursed in her veins. Flashes of hatred still smoldered, threatening to blow up at the slightest provocation like cartoonish dynamite. He envisioned the eventual mushroom cloud in the wake of her fury—a testament to the rage she was capable of harboring and made explode unexpectedly.
"Although I don't think it's a good idea to confess to a crime before you've done it," he told her.
She snorted.
"Oh, please," she retorted. "If that had been the case between us when you hatched a mad scheme, we would never have lasted this long."
He looked down at her hand, which clutched at the edge of her pillow.
"I never hatch schemes," he reminded her.
The ceiling took her attention, as she didn't break eye contact with it. She was the one with the smarts, the plans, the intentions to make him succeed. She was more driven than anyone he'd met.
"That's right, you improvise."
She felt before she saw him sit on the bed. Reflexively, she curled herself against the wall. Actual contact with people had not been a regular part of her routine for some time. Not that warmth hadn't been part of the equation in the exchange as far as she remembered.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
He smiled easily, more so than either expected it to surface. Amusement twinkled in his eyes. Suspicion remained in her stare.
He hoped she wouldn't raise her fists.
"Improvising."
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Ron gaped like the plastic prized trout hung up in his father's office for approximately fifteen minutes, unable to overcome the shock of the rumour.
"He did what?" he repeated for the third time since hearing the story.
He was more surprised Malfoy hadn't been outright murdered by either Hermione or Harry. Since seeing them in the library, he figured it was premature to think things were finally beginning to go smoothly. A very ugly wrench had been thrown into those plans, disrupting his hopes for the two.
Still, when he finally snapped out of his distress, he found Lavender also reacting to the story with equal alarm when one of the Patil twins commented on the matter.
He slid the small paperback edition he'd taken earlier from the library further into his bag. The note he'd slipped between the table of contents and the front cover would remain unseen before he'd finished writing and rewriting it at least seven times.
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Hermione vented for exactly ten minutes, launching into a tirade of idiot boys, improper behavior and how she could not possibly be held accountable for her actions while being attacked in public.
"I have witnesses!" she proclaimed angrily.
She wasn't exactly fuming, he realized, when he found himself facing the doorway at a horizontal angle as they both shared her pillow. Her embrace was warmer than he remembered. As usual, her arm draped over his ribs, fingers tightened on the fabric of his shirt. Muscle memory and whatnot.
A warm breeze blew in his ear.
"What are you thinking?"
He smiled.
I want you.
"Sleeping."
The darkest of nightmares didn't come to mind. He could barely recall the loneliness and survivor's guilt of that bleak morning everyone would call a triumph. Instead, the closeness and realization of being alive ran through his memory as the scent of her hair drifted around him.
Another breeze. More forceful. A sigh.
"This is wrong."
But I don't care.
His hand covered hers. She slid out from under his grip, her fingers tracing upward, over his throat and face until she found that familiar spot near his temple. The familiar pattern traced out underneath, back and forth—a zigzag. Even blind and in the dark, she didn't need eyes to see it.
"Don't you think I should be the one hugging you like this?" he tried lightly.
His attempt at lightheartedness did not endear her much.
"You'd only try to take advantage," she pointed out dryly.
A lie. One that she knew too well. He wasn't into impulsive displays of affection. She had practically bullied him into hugging her the first time. Even then, she was usually the one to throw her arms around him without caring or bothering to ask.
"And you're not?"
The pattern she traced suddenly stopped.
Conscience, he reminded himself. She had a conscience the size of Jupiter. A place where the monsters of morality and altruism roamed freely, destroying most vestiges of desire. He wondered if the occasional selfish need for love was also crushed in that planet.
The hypothesis was asking to be tested.
His hand covered hers, planting it firmly against his skin, effectively covering his eye like a warm patch. Pulled slowly, almost reluctantly, slender fingers encased around his own focused in front of his eyes. Pale skin and palm lines cleared in his vision, no longer blurred.
Another finger traced her hand from the tip of white nails around the rounded edges to rough knuckles and the curve of a palm. The subtle indentures made themselves present in his memory, carved out a place between all the moments spent with her.
She wasn't sure what exactly he was trying to accomplish.
He traced the angle of the thumb, found the blue veins that connected in her wrist. Turning her hand over, he studied the lightly tanned skin, found a freckle under her knuckle, a tiny childhood scar between thumb and index finger. The crescent scar was smooth, unnoticeable under his touch. He didn't see any trace of the bloody lip she'd given Malfoy.
He didn't kiss her hand when he pressed her knuckles against his lips. She thought she felt him smile beneath her bones.
I love you.
She very suddenly forgot about Malfoy.
"You already know."
Her hand moved away from him, gliding her arm down to his chest and onto the mattress. Her fingers dug into the sheets fiercely, much to his amusement.