"Between one being and another, there is a gulf, a discontinuity… It is a deep gulf, and I do not see how it can be done away with. None the less, we can experience its dizziness together. It can hypnotise it. This gulf is death in one sense, and death is vertiginous, death is hypnotising." G. Bataille
Hermione does not sleep.
Draco does not sleep.
Though neither realizes it of the other.
Hermione stands at the window in the room she's been provided, palm against the coldness of the glass, head against the stone next to it.
Staring out at the slowly pinkening sky, casting colours over the newly fallen snow.
Tired.
Her mind an array of jumbled thoughts and emotions.
She wonders if it is too early for breakfast, then wonders how that works in this place, so different than anywhere she's ever been.
A reminder.
Differences.
Glass.
Cold, against her fingers.
Chilling.
She'd almost left the night before. When the door had clicked and she had regained her senses, she'd had every intention of leaving, of figuring out someway to complete this curriculum without him.
The Malfoy darling.
But then Brinky had appeared, looking nervous, shuffling from foot to foot, telling her that Master Malfoy had readied a room for her and to please to come with him.
And she had.
Because of the way the house elf looked frightened, as if there would be consequences if she said no, because Draco had a room made up for her, because of her inability to label, to understand, to comprehend, Draco's words.
And finally, because she knew, understood, that she had to have the wizard's participation in order to complete the project.
So she had followed the house elf up to the room.
Tiredness dragging her step.
Her magic sluggish even as she tried the most basic spells to prepare for sleep and build up the fire in the fireplace, only to find, once lying in the massive bed, that she couldn't sleep, the image of Draco's face as it was then, as it was now, revolving.
Around and around.
Night turning to dawn.
Clouds obscuring the sun.
A white landscape awesome in its purity, in its untouched beauty spread out in front of her.
Hermione wishes for sleep.
Just one night of sleep, uninterrupted by nightmares, by flares of blazing white heat in her chest. One night.
She takes her hand away from the cold glass, flexing her rigid fingers in order to regain feeling in them, then turns from the window staring at the room around her, unsure of what to do now.
A moment.
Then a decision.
With a smile Hermione lets herself out of the room and quietly traces her path from last night, down the stairs and to the doors of the library.
Draco finds her there several moments later, his approach silent, standing just inside the door, watching. Watching, as she twirls her quill and bites her lip, pouring over the parchments, tea things next to her.
He's spent a sleepless night with such an image in his head.
She finally feels his presence and looks up from the parchment, eyes immediately taking in his features, his perfect hair, the easy way he leans against the door.
Relaxed.
Though she feels the tension running through him.
Somehow.
"Good morning," she tries, breaking her gaze away from him, looking down at the parchment.
"Did you get breakfast?" He asks, moving into the room, easily and gracefully, belying his sleepless night.
She doesn't look up. "Yes, the tea is still warm, and I think there are some crumpets left."
Instinctively and without thought, something simple in Hermione's magic reaches out, reaches out and finds nothing.
Absent. Still. Nothing.
Draco falls to the rug next to her, startling her. She glances at him even as she strives to control the sudden thrum of blood through her veins. Looking away. Back at the parchment. Back at the quill between her fingers.
He ignores her to pour his tea, looking at the leftover breakfast food and deciding against it, stomach tight, a heavy ball, weighing down.
He smells like spice and wealth, and underneath that the clean of a new fallen snow.
She smells of lavender and autumn.
"I read the book again last night," Draco says.
Hermione looks over in surprise, raising an eyebrow.
"I found it on the library floor; it must have fallen from your cloak pocket last night," Draco explains.
She nods, just barely, curls moving in the morning light.
He can almost feel them under his fingers.
Ignoring it. Continuing.
"I was thinking last night about the spell being Malfoy centric, perhaps being created by one of my Malfoy ancestors so I cast several different charms," he puts a hand up to stall her question of what charms, and continues, "and though I didn't discover the original writers of the spell, I did find something rather interesting about our little book."
He sips his tea.
Hermione watches him closely, patiently.
But just barely.
He puts the tea down, and turns to look Hermione full in the face, three feet between them, "I believe that what we cast was not the original spell. One of the charms I used, a simple charm really - something my father developed in order to send cryptic messages, alerted me to several changes in the actual spell, places were the original spell was either entirely terminated, or was manipulated in some fashion."
Hermione works the knowledge around in her mind. "Is there some way we can trace the terminated pieces, or see what the changes are?"
Draco slowly shakes his head, lost in his own thoughts now, the logic of the problem catching his interest. "I don't think so. I tried several different things, a couple of which are not taught at Hogwarts if you understand, but the changes were so exact that not even a trace of the original magic was present."
Hermione tilts her head, putting the quill down to pick up her tea. "So, we still need to figure out who the original author was?"
Draco, still lost in his thoughts nods absently, "Yes. But, the information is still very interesting."
He locks gazes with her and the intensity in his eyes shocks Hermione enough that the tea in her cup trembles from the shiver lacing up and down her person.
She sets the tea cup carefully down.
"Why so?" she asks.
"Do you not remember what Severus said, when he first came to us with the spell?" The bored tone was there, but underneath it, tension.
Hermione thought back on the scene, in the library at the Burrow, in front of the fireplace, like so many other scenes, and Severus, explaining, the book held out for Draco to take it, explaining about the magical field created out of the binding spell, created to allow Harry a place where he could fight Voldemort one on one, without outside influence, without Voldemort being able to call on anything for an advantage.
Equal opponents.
Through a magical field.
And then Hermione's mind catches it, just a flicker, and her eyes grow slightly, looking over at Draco in alarm.
"The field," she breathed.
Draco nods. "The field was supposed to dismantle, fall away, but it didn't."
"Why?"
Draco shakes his head, pulling a hand through the perfect hair, now not so perfect, now more human, now more…something else.
Hermione's fingers itch. The base of her spine throbs.
Though the magical intensity she usually feels from him is still missing.
Still nothing.
"I don't know. I couldn't find an explanation."
Hermione tries to remember what she knows about binding spells, her mind going over the countless amount of information she has read on the subject.
She chews on her lips, slowly, thoughtfully, eyes distant.
Draco watches her, eyes focused on her lip, on the perfect white teeth.
His magic pushing against the wards.
She slowly shakes her head, "There is no reason why the binding spell should cause anything but…" She trails off, not sure if she should go on, the words on her tongue suddenly meaning many things, many things unsaid, unsure.
"The compulsion," Draco finishes for her, quietly.
She jerks her head to look at him, eyes searching his face, for anything, anything at all, but it is perfectly blank, not even his eyes giving away emotion.
And that place.
Void.
She looks away. "Except the compulsion," she agrees.
She shakes her head again, trying to clear it, layer it, she feels stifled, hot, unsure. "Could it be that simple? That the field exists because the binding still exists?"
Draco is still by her side.
Stillness.
Moments.
"No, I don't think so," he says.
She agrees after a moment. "The field existed because we created it, but when complete it was dismantled, or it disappeared; I saw it."
Another moment.
"That doesn't necessarily mean it actually disappeared," the quiet reply.
Hermione waves a hand, suddenly irritated, frustrated. She rises to her feet and goes over to the large windows, staring out at the white landscape.
Hand against the glass.
Cold.
Anchoring.
"Of course it doesn't, because I can –" she pauses, not wanting to stumble on her words, "I can still see the elemental magic, I can see the shadow, the grey field. I can see it. But I didn't. Not at first, not directly afterwards, not until…"
Something sharp then. Sharp and more than painful, something searing, something horribly, horribly searing. Pain and guilt and horror, her sight washing in blackness, darkness.
"Oh Merlin," she whispers, remembering, remembering.
Fading, fading with the knowledge, weak.
He is at her side instantly, moving quickly, next to her, hand on her arm, the contact brilliant, first contact a brilliant flare of nerves, heat, but all of it, twirling madly, madly, madly.
"What?" A retort, sharp, scattering thoughts, shattering.
She looks at him then, so close, hand on her arm, so close she can smell him, she can feel his warmth, can feel him, and it's glorious. Above all of it, it's glorious, his eyes worried, cautious, but there, finally there, and the magic, yes, just a small amount, but there too.
But underneath that, flying underneath, trapped to the ground, knowledge.
Brutal knowledge.
Hateful, horrible knowledge.
And she says it because she can't help but say it.
"Not until Ron's funeral."
The words.
A scream of anguish at the base of her spine.
Draco takes one step back, another, rigid, aristocrat, pulling on the Malfoy cloak, pulling away from her, his hand dropping from her arm, and the coldness of it, the lack of his presence, a vacuum, pulling, pulling, away from her.
Until there is nothing.
"I see," he says.
Biting her lip, a point of focus, pain, physical pain, a focus.
Another step away from her, and then turning, to return, not to the rug in front of the fireplace, no, to the desk. Placing himself at the desk, dark heavy wood between them.
"Explain."
Pain. Focus.
She turns away and once again stares outside. Her hand coming up, again, to make contact with the glass, tracing the lines there with a finger, tracing, a point of focus.
"It was after the funeral," she began softly, so softly, "after the funeral is when I first saw the shadows."
Two days. Between Ron's death and Ron's funeral. Two days.
Without shadows.
Two days that were a mass of confusion, loss, joy, sorrow, and, a decision, a decision made the morning of the funeral, before the sun rose, sitting on a bench in the Weasley's garden.
Shadows.
"Are you sure?" Brutal. The tone tearing, destroying.
She doesn't look at him. "Yes," she says quietly, through a squeezed throat, amazed she could get the syllable out at all.
"At Ron's funeral," she repeats.
A moment.
Flickering of flame.
Cold against her hand.
And then.
"It was out of our control." The spoken words chilling, freezing the air.
Hermione immediately knows what he is speaking of.
She does not turn away from the window.
"It was coming," the tone, continuing. She listens even though her mind is screaming for him to shut up.
Memories.
Please shut up.
He doesn't.
"Part of a binding spell, any binding spell, is the copulation of the relationship between those bound. It doesn't matter if it's an Unbreakable Vow, doesn't matter what kind of binding spell, those who are bound are connected."
The voice.
Lecturing.
Devoid of emotion.
I can't do this.
Her voice, whinging, whimpering.
"Even now, Severus and I are connected through his vow to my mother. Even now you and I are connected through the spell we cast. Acts Hermione," he says from behind the desk, "acts because we were bound, because when the abyss surrounded us, when the darkness was all around us, we took a moment to live, to glorify in life."
Hermione has dropped her finger, dropped her hand to her side and she trembles, can't control it, can't turn away, can't will herself to leave, to walk out of the room, away from him, away from his voice.
Movement. Of air. Of time.
And suddenly he is there; his body is next to hers again, a rustle of fabric, the scent of him, oh gods the scent, and suddenly, as if a dam opened, his magic, whirling around, around, pressing, so very insistent, so very real, tangible.
A sound, strangled, coming from her throat and his breath is there, on the back of her neck, body not touching, no, not touching, but there, a presence at her back.
"A moment Hermione," he whispers next to her skin, the voice, silkiness moving over the hairs there, shivering, "A moment that we took to remember that we were alive, that we breathed, and bled, that we were real, still, a moment."
His voice, liquid, hot, and she remembers, standing there, she remembers something she has long wished to forget.
How he had came to her even as she had shut the door to his room, how his lips had found hers in the dark and she had thrilled at the brutal nature of it, the insistence of it. Nice, no not nice, never nice, demanding, a reassurance of reality, a confirmation. And she'd welcomed it, the taste of him in her mouth, filling her senses, her hands digging into his arms even as his hands roamed over her sides, pulling up the thin fabric of her sleep t-shirt.
"Do you remember," the voice says now, pulling her from the memory, combining with the memory.
She leans forward against the glass, the cold glass, resting her head there.
Still not touching, not physically, but his voice, caressing, the memories caressing, his magic wrapping itself around her.
"Do you remember how it felt, how it felt when I ran my hands over your body, when I took you into my mouth, sweet, sweet Hermione?"
And she can, the memory replaying even as her body throbs with the memory, she remembers everything, the feel of his palms against her breast, his mouth warm against the nipple, plucking with his teeth, blowing cool air, then nipping at her collar bone, finding that spot along her jaw line, to kiss with lips, with his tongue, with the bite of a marking. Marking her as his. His.
She moans at the remembered feeling, hands clenching.
Continuing in that voice, a mere hair's breath from contact, "And when I finally thrust into you, and you cried out my name, so warm, so tight, throbbing around me, as I moved inside you, do you remember?" His tone losing its smoothness, turning ragged, hands coming up against the window, boxing her in, but not touching, so close but not touching.
But the magic.
The magic touches, harsh against her suddenly sensitive skin, rubbing, coaxing, intertwining, his and hers, twining, twining and touching, leaping away, touching again.
And the heat, deep in her womb, growing.
His lips, close to her ear, a barely controlled voice, twirling, winding, tighter and tighter, "I can see you now, even now, arching up underneath me, your hair spread out about your head, breasts thrust up, my hands playing with your nipples, so incredibly lovely, withering underneath me."
A breath, along her jaw line, voice dropping, sliding, "So lovely, so incredibly lovely in life, in the example of life," his lips against her ear now, feather touches, jolts, "and when you came my lovely Hermione, when you screamed my name, and my own sex responded and I exploded inside of you, in that wet heat, I was alive, and in that one moment, fucking you was the most glorious example of life I had ever witnessed. Life, Professor," he whispers, "reaffirming the need for existence."
She can't stand; the window keeps her up, his body so close behind her keeps her from collapsing and the heat, it's too much, too much, his lips at her ear, the voice, the memory, too much, too much.
And then gone.
Like murder. The sudden and complete lack of existence.
Magic gone. Body gone.
Everything.
Gone.
And the click of a door closing.
And the muffled sob of the witch at the window.
Because she remembers, with an image seared into her mind, the look on his face, the beads of sweat on his brow, his hands grasping her own, as he called out her name, the look of peace on his face when he dropped his head, magic swirling about him, white hair falling over his face, and the colour of his eyes, liquid, quicksilver, apparent even in the moon, as he looked down at her, fingers intertwined with her own.
Now.
Falling down the window, falling, curling herself inwards, sobs racking her body because she remembers it all, remembers the kiss he had placed on her lips, gentle where before it was harsh, no longer claiming, but thanking, remembering her arms coming around him, pulling him down, remembering his arms, strongly pulling her against his body, cradling her head in his arm.
Remembering.
Lying awake together, watching the night fade to the dark grey clouds of the morning, the finale of everything before them, ready in breathless anticipation, the end, rolling towards them and only when they could no longer lay there, only at the very last moment did she untangle herself from his arms, gathering her clothes, putting them back on.
The kiss, at the end, brutal, a mark.
Then gentle.
A whisper along lips.
Knowledge. Acknowledgement.
Not hope. No.
But peace.
For a moment.