Picture In My Pocket
...in which they interact with relative success.
Every fucking day is the same. Wake up in this piss-poor excuse for an apartment, head feeling just about ready to burst open, the scars on his face and neck aching as if they were only hours old instead of years. Try not to listen, because noise hurts. Try not to open his eyes, because light hurts. Try not to breathe, because being alive hurts.
But the will to live is strong, and he hates to think that the wolf blood in him is the reason he's still alive. He's an animal, and animals are made to survive.
Growling in frustration at the fact that he'd lived to see another shitty day, he finally took in a deep breath-
and felt as if something had punched him-hard-in the stomach.
Bill sat bolt upright and instantly regretted it. He'd forgotten that he had the hangover of the century headed his way, courtesy of Bill-from-last-night, a fellow that present-Bill had grown to dislike more and more over the past few months. He'd expected his head to hurt, but he couldn't understand why everything was so. damn. bright.
He snarled, but the intake of breath brought the smell that had nearly knocked him breathless back to the front of his mind, which seemed rather one-track these days. Hesitantly, he peaked through squinted eyelids, searching for the source of that scent.
And there, at the foot of his bed, was the source, not only of the scent, but of the light that was pissing him off so very much.
She had a chair pulled up near the end of the bed, and it was clear she'd been reading before she dozed off. Her upper body was slumped on the bed, her luminous wand tip resting on an open book, her mass of dark hair splayed across the pages.
Fucking wand, Bill grumbled internally, half-crawling to the foot of the bed himself and wrestling the damned thing from her sleeping grasp. He shook it until the light turned off, and then paused, the scent from Hermione catching him off guard again.
It was the strangest smell- life, vitality, warm earth, sleep, comfort, sex… A thousand things came to mind. Without thinking, he leaned in a bit closer, sniffing her hair. Yes, the smell was certainly coming from her. He felt a rumble deep in his chest, almost like a growl. His headache (which seemed like a really lenient term for what was going on inside his skull) throbbed worse than ever and he let out a whine. Cursing himself and Fenrir and everything else, he fell back onto his pillow, clutching his head in his hands and fighting back a howl of pain.
He never heard her get up, but suddenly he felt tiny hands wrap around his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face gently but forcefully.
"Stop it, right now," said a sleepy, but still wonderfully bossy voice. Bill cracked open one eye and stared up at the pale, disheveled Hermione. One of her hands continued to hold his wrist while the other moved up to his forehead. "You'll scratch your face off if you keep doing that," she said quietly, allowing her cool hand to rest on his skin for a moment.
Bill's eyes slid closed, and he couldn't believe how wonderful such a small thing could feel. Even the scent of her was amazing- so strong, yet not repulsive to his hangover-heightened sense of smell.
"Someone's already scratched my face off for me, I'm afraid," he muttered bitterly, leaving his eyes closed. Even though it was still dark outside the windows of the room and her wand had been extinguished, looking at things was just too much at the moment.
Hermione made a small noise, but Bill couldn't tell what it meant. "That's not funny," she scolded him, removing her hand from his forehead. He missed it when it was gone.
"What were you reading about this time?" Bill asked, trying to keep his mind off of the fact that his head seemed likely to explode at any moment.
"Ancient runes," Hermione answered, pressing something to his lips. Bill's eyes flew open, and he glared at her reproachfully.
"What's this you're trying to poison me with?" he demanded, pushing the bottle away from his mouth so that he could sniff it first.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's water. You'll be dehydrated after the binge you went on last night. Whatwere you thinking, Bill? Honestly."
He took the bottle from her and downed the water, not meeting her eye.
"One generally goes on drinking binges to avoid thinking, in my professional opinion."
She scowled at him, but he still wouldn't meet her eye. "Well, then," she said suddenly, standing up from the bedside and heading to the door, "I hope you enjoy explaining that to your mum in the morning."
Her hand was on the doorknob before he'd managed to call after her, "Wait!"
The sound of his own voice was too much for his ears and he snarled at himself.Fucking git.He could smell and feel her presence still in the room, so he addressed her without opening his eyes. "Sorry. Please don't get Mum, yet. I'd like to be a bit more decent before I face her. Please, Hermione, I haven't seen her in over a year. I don't want thisto be her first impression."
She was quiet, and all he could hear was her breathing. Then she quickly crossed the room and resumed her seat at the foot of his bed.
"Go to the bathroom and get cleaned up then," she ordered. "You stink like firewhiskey and…and…" Bill raised his eyebrows at her, curious as to what else he stanklike.
"Well, Ms. Granger?"
"Nothing, just go take a shower," she said, clearly flustered about something.
"Your wish, my command," he grumbled sarcastically, rolling off the bed and heading out to the bathroom.
Hermione slowed her breathing as close to normal as she could, and tried to erase from her mind that she'd almost told Bill Weasley that, beneath the strong scent of stale firewhiskey, he smelled like her Amortentia.