To Nochas; my only constant.
-=-=-=-
A sliver of brown skin between white, loose cotton sock and grey wool skirt, short blond hairs on the thin, branchlike limb, a musk of toilet-powder and a homely biscuity scent, and at once I'm lost. She's not usually this tan; but she visited Egypt over the summer and now her whole body is a golden, tawny colour, from the ankle to the crown of her sweet head, until the chestnut waves of her Weasley hair begins to lap at her sweet, honey-coloured temple. A restless left hand tugs uneasily at her skirt, fidgeting, dancing at the hem – too short? Too long? I don't trust myself anymore – and underneath her round, childish fingernails, her skin shows pink against her Egyptian tan. The right hand is put to use at Arithmancy (variations on trinomials) and once or twice she frowns, furrows her brow, and looks at the work with wide brown eyes. But then she jokes again, her elbow poking me in her ribs, eyes sparkling – those eyes! – looking at me with a sharpness I wish was replaced with a loving gaze, wide pink lips spread over wide white teeth. She's frail, and she sits at the oaken desk with her thin, childish knees apart, one swaying side to side, almost as a consolation, I think. Once or twice our hands, mine clumsy and plain, hers lively and jitterbugging, meet, and I, expecting to feel a tingle of electricity, am dissapointed and feel foolish when all I sense is her usual healthy, autumny glow.
I suppose the electricity is resigned to mutual romances.
I'm taken out of this thought when she looks up at me suddenly, meets those eyes, and at once I'm frightened that she's noticed my interest in more than her tutoring.
"Hey, Hermione, will you pass me that quill?"
-=-=-=-