And, finally, let the drums roll, -Mournfulseverity has officially accepted to be my Beta. We stay in two opposite halves of the world. So, my typos will vanish only after the sun rises on her side of the globe. I am still finding my way through this site.
Disclaimer: I tried and tried, hard to write something else- but this Dramione was too stubbornly lodged at the tip of my pen. The Harry Potter world, belongs to JKR. My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plot line and story line may therefore get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers in this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life.
Chapter 3
Stealing glances
A day at Hogwarts
6th year
She was fed up, utterly and absolutely fed up with Harry's unlikely obsession with Him. Obsession. She didn't feel comfortable around that word. Why would she? Not at least now. Not when no one is looking. Not when Ron is finally stealing glances at her. No, Not now. How was she going to explain it? No, she will not even consider it, not for a fraction of a second! NO, NO, No!
She stabs at her piece of tenderly cooked roast to the perfection, lowers her head and then sighs. But who is she to deny? Deny that her eyes will travel over the heads of her friends and housemates to the table right across. Eyes would peruse and then, like a moth to fire, like a bee dancing over a freshly blossomed flower, like thirsty traveler running like a mad man towards a mirage of an oasis, find him.
Him.
He has grown taller, his hair no longer gelled up and back brushed, his robes tailored by the masters of the craft of cloth making- still wrinkled. His hair now certainly makes an attempt to hide his eyes. His eyes now hardly see things and hardly hold on to values of the thriving lives around. On days, she finds a seat behind him, she notices the edges of his shoulders. The slender nape of his neck. His ears are not white. But they are a combination of rose pink, carnation, blush, ballet slippers, crepe, lemonade, rouge, flamingo, peach, punch, slowly fading into nude and coral- then he straightens up, his back rigid, conscious of a lingering stare. He drops a quill at the floor, feigning absentminded, at the pretext of spotting the assailant.
But Hermione is on longer looking, her eyes are trained on the professor. Her ears perked up obediently receiving the lesson. She is fighting hard against the blush threatening to creep over her collar bone, up her throat and tinge her cheeks.
He stupendously surveys the scene. Like a spider at the neglected corner of a room. Finding none too busy hiding their true intentions, he straightens up and goes back to drawing an elegant "G" on the neglected right bottom edge of the parchment.
She slowly breathes out a sigh. Slowly and softly releasing the pent-up suffocating air through a small slit of her thoroughly chewed lips. She turns her head, just a tiny bit of a millimeter and she looks back at him. Fascinated to discover, yet another nuance of him. His fingers, starting from the knuckle till the tip of each digit. The afternoon sun has finally burst into the room through the bay windows of the castle. And under its fierce scrutiny, his fingers suddenly look like those of an angel- about to bring upon God's wrath.
In the library, when she is hiding behind the book racks, she can see his head bowed down over ancient tomes. His fingers racing over the letters, his lips moving in a blur. He does not need to bite at them. His scowl is sharp enough to tackle the frustration vibrating through his whole body. He nearly throws away the book away, in disgust and disappointment. He clutches at the ends of his already tussled hair. And pulls at them. She is now standing on her little toes. Her feet are aching. Her fingers at holding onto the shelf edge at the level of her nose, she is holding onto her labored breath again. Her eyes are burning. She has not blinked for once. Then there is someone coming from the other end of the row, she is currently in. Hastily she changes her wound up posture, it is a student meaning to move on to the next row. Quickly, she turns, rising up on her toe, she looks out. He has left.
His food is untouched, his face held up with the lone crook of his turned-up palm. He is every sculpture's prized Adonis, or David. What difference does it make which Renaissance artist will pay him to simply sit just like that? Nonchalant, disinterested, lost and drowning in unknown sorrow of failure? He is there right in front of her. Sitting quietly. Looking ahead. Away from his usual snobbish house mates. He didn't even take seep of the drink in his goblet. He gets up, not actually seeing the dinner is coming to a close. His shoulders are dropped, his head bowed down. He walks out of the great hall. She thinks she can hear his footsteps. Elegant like his script, tapping on the stone floor in perfect cadence.
That night when she finally is secluded within the red curtains of her four poster Gryffindor dorm bed, Hermione Granger, a muggleborn, the brightest witch of the age, the brains of the Golden Trio, a steadfast friend of The Boy Who Lived, the one to standby Harry Potter through war and in peace, cried her heart out of Draco Lucius Malfoy.
A/N: Shall I carry on? But why Must I?
