She hasn't gone to the library in three weeks. Her assignments suffer and she is surprised to find out how little she cares.

Her professors do though.

McGonagalls stops her after class. Dumbledore sends her a note. She tells them politely that she is okay, and they let it be.

Then Snape summons her to his cabin and she wonders at the overreaction.

His lips press into a thin line of disapproval as soon as she enters. He wordlessly hands her the essay parchment. It is filled with angry red lines and disappointed comments in his scrawny handwriting. It's the first time she has received an Acceptable grade.

She shrugs and forgets to thank him for his time.

Padma takes her to Hogsmeade, and she forgets to stop at her favorite hot cocoa place.

Harry and Ron talk about a quidditch match their house won for three days straight, and she forgets to get annoyed.

Except for the professors who are paid to pay attention to her, no one does, she idly notes.

His stares don't count.

Friends good nights-out themselves, and that night, she throws away her pillow, casting a Muffliato charm and finally allows sobs to rack her body.

She knows she isn't depressed, she feels too much for it.

It flips a switch inside her and the uncomfortable prickling sensation suddenly finds it easy to enter her eyes at the most innocuous times. Sometimes she excuses herself and heads to the second-floor girls' lavatory, sometimes she doesn't and stares at the ceiling till the dampness pools around her eyes and she can wipe it at a go without anyone being the wiser.

Loneliness manages to sip her dry of company of tears.

Insomnia proves loyal and never leaves her hand.

She starts wandering around the castle corridors but no prefect bothers to catch her. Her bright reputation forestalls the need for excuses and dismisses any notoriety at her end as unimaginable. Hardly any one would venture out of cold windy nights like these anyway. She climbs up to the astronomy tower with the support of the railing, dull thuds of her feet echoing with exaggerated noise in the silence. She is panting by the time she reaches the top, her stamina has definitely dipped from before and there is a little constriction in her chest, a telltale sign of low immunity.

A cold breeze covers her skin in gooseflesh and she crosses her arms over her chest, the wind feels like razor blades against her cheeks. She fiddles with telescopes but no matter how many lenses she stares at the sky through, she sees no stars. A couple of white delivery owls hoot into the night, flapping their wings diligently on the palm of the inky black sky. Her fingers start feeling numb so she rubs her hands together and warms her cheeks before moving to the closest parapet, pressing her belly at the railing, and peering unseeingly at the grounds below. The skin around her nose feels uncomfortably tight and stretched. Her mind whirls in a limbo of confusion where every thought and memory begs to be psychoanalyzed and ends up giving life changing advice as helpful as that found on the bumper sticker at the back of a car, fading and zooming past just as she feels like giving it a second thought.

A foot stamps behind her and her back straightens in tense attention. She doesn't need to turn around to know who it is, his cologne gives him away. There is no further noise as he moves to stand beside her, at a safe one arm distance. She can feel his gaze on her as if it has a physical weight but doesn't return it, making no guesses on why he has sought her out after their last altercation. She feels tension in every part of her body, as if she were one thermometer-check step away from flushing into a fever. Her pulse races in her wrist and she places her other palm over it, a plea for her body to not betray her. Memories of their exchange float inside her head without permission like sly tenants who promise to pay their due. She wants to take back some of the things she said to him, not because she doesn't believe them anymore, or wants to gift wrap the insights in prettier words, but because they genuinely make her feel mean-spirited, a prerogative she staunchly associates with him and consequently, wants nothing to do with.

"A waxing moon would wane at the sight of you," he says after several minutes. "You look terrible."

She looks at him despite herself then.

His sparkling silver robes, his sparkling silver eyes.

Just like his laughter after the quidditch match.

Just like his arm slung around Crabbe's shoulder.

Just like his plate full of roast chicken and boiled and roasted potatoes.

He blinds her.

"You don't," she admits softly. Her defenses feel as soft as a cookie dipped in tea and her eyes suddenly start itching. Tears threaten to march out in a parade at any moment. But she just can't do that in front of him, no matter the cost. A long-ignored instinct of self-preservation makes itself heard, and she turns at her heel before he can strum her pain with a handful frivolous words and char the little remaining fight in her spirit that had made her seek stars. Before she can do the same to him.

His hand grabs her left bicep,and the air seems to thicken with tension; she can almost see wisps and flashes of it swish and zoom by. She looks at him again- somehow he always finds a way to make sure she does-and his face is less impassive, eyes less flashing.

"Malfoy...not today," she whispers tiredly, wishing her tone had come out sounding less like a plea, as she tried to free her arm from his grip.

"You stay...I'll leave after just..."-he trails off, his gentle tone in incongruence with the tight set of his jaw-"...after just this." His hand slips along the length of her arm. First there is friction on her palm from the bandage rolled on his wrist and later warmth on her fingers as he directs them to a mug she hadn't noticed before on the railing.

He casts a warming charm on her person and leaves her cupping hot cocoa from Hogsmeade.

6 weeks ago

"One learns more about life by observing it than reading books," Malfoy's voice, hot on her neck, makes her jump. She pushes the corner of her elbow backwards, and feeling great satisfaction at his yelp, swiftly turns around.

"What do you mean by..." Her voice is suddenly low in her throat as consciousness of how much larger he is than he suddenly dawns. She notices a faint smattering of coarse, blond hair along his jaw. His cologne- dry amber and musk and something complicated and mysterious- makes her blood run burning and rampant and violent in her. She presses her legs together, appreciating the friction and finds herself asking a question she is not sure she wants to hear the answer of. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Why would I stare at you?" He tilts his head, his arms moving to brace on either side of her at the bookshelf, caging her. His molten silver eyes look as if the stars have descended in them. "Are you that beautiful?"

Her insides squeeze like a palm around crushed strawberries. They have never stood this close before. His minty breath is all on her face. Only cowards answer in questions, she wants to tell him, but feels altogether too exposed in walking upon the unfamiliar intimate track the conversation has taken. She fumbles in urgency with the incoherent rambling of her thoughts till she gets to the safe territory of a fact. She presses her back against the shelf without knowing why, before she replies, "Your first statement was a quote from Joseph Brodsky." In an effort to think clearly, she pushes at his chest. Hard. She feels as if she would break out in hives any moment from the panic his closeness is setting off all over her. "He is a muggle author. Hope you choke on that, Malfoy."

He doesn't step back but a familiar sneer, as if had just been waiting for its time, forms on his face. His eyes turn stony, cruel.

He bares his teeth and she braces herself mentally as best as she can.

"Pelting others with facts no one wants to hear again, Granger" he growls, his eyes turning stormy," "Does it make you feel in control? As if you can belong by correcting others to feel superior to them. As if it will make them believe that the opinions that you have borrowed from libraries are your own! Are you so afraid no one will love you if you don't throw pieces of knowledge at their feet? "-his eyes swirl in heat again and arms remain where they were, a taunting, smoke-screen cruel edge to his voice-"Who will be your friend once you stop helping with assignments? Alain de Botton, another one of your muggle writers, said addiction is that which keeps one from self-knowledge. Just because it is not a drug but a book, doesn't mean you aren't sniffing it all the way in to avoid being with yourself. There is light years of distance between empty intellectualization and rich fullness of experience. Think about it, Granger, who are you without the your books? Are you so afraid that you will be no one to any one without them?"

Heat, white hot and unforgiving, crawls up her neck, inching slowly up her jaw, and firmly settles on her cheeks. Something intuits at the back of her mind that careful examination and endless replays of his words in future have already promised sleepless nights.

But that is for later.

Run away, a voice in her brain suggests urgently.

"At least I pick the opinions I carry in my brain." She juts up her chin in defiance. "Unlike you, I have a choice."

He leans towards her, almost as if he is intrigued. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Her hand inches towards the pocket of her robe, close to the place where her wand is tucked, but a clever idea stops her and she balls her fist.

Don't, the voice in her head valiantly warns again.

But it bothers her too much that after usual fare of sparring in gloomy corridors and shadowed corners, his words send her down spirals of existentialism, making her doubt herself for days, while nothing she says seems to pull him apart and he walks away wearing her peace like a dog tag as if it were his fucking right.

She is done playing nice.

Never has she seen him look so open to hearing what she has to say. She wants him to choke, this time for real, on the words she has rehearsed and thought about often in practice sessions for a day like this. She takes a deep fortifying breath. "Your parents informed your opinion and drilled biases in you as a child. I get that, Malfoy. We can't help our childhood."-her nostrils flare as she continues-"But you live your life as an unsuspecting mouthpiece even after growing up, not knowing which puppeteer has been pulling your string." She pauses, nourishing herself eagerly at his livid stormy eyes, his flushed face. His arms have dropped to his side, knuckles white on his fist. She is sure the sting will be perfect on her final bite.

Ignoring the pinprick stab of misgiving, she swiftly finishes, "Your life is not a choice. Do read a book from around here if you need to, or I can recommend a few from when I was 3, that will teach you, Malfoy, that living beings without choices are called animals."

She ducks her head and walks away without waiting for a response, her back thrumming with an awareness that it remains bare to his hexes.

None comes and she tells herself that the pang in her stomach is not one of uncertainty.

Present

A small part of her knows that she shouldn't pay heed to his words. Everything he had said had been careless, designed in the heat of the moment to deliver maximum provocation. It was not the product of months of somber reflection and genuine food for thought for her, like her mind wants her to believe.

Not going to the library will only make him think he was right.

On her birthday, Harry and Ron get her a book-shaped cake with buttercream icing pages and black fondant ink with eager and proud expression at own thoughtfulness. She swallows a slice without tasting and tries to smile. They seem to have made peace with her zoning out and she wonders who she is to them without her books. She wonders who she is at all without her books. The answer forces her to confront the ugliness of her life and settles a bitter frost on her heart.

She hates Draco Malfoy with a new vengeance. And never thinks about that night at the Astronomy tower.

And still doesn't go to the library.

With little else to do, she starts observing him.

You look terrible.

You don't.

Five days later, everyone in the great hall hears the bellowing howler from his father. Something to do with his blood-line sullying, irresponsible actions. His stoic expression throughout the tirade reminds her of some details and those bits and pieces of information swiftly start to solve the quandary he presents.

His plate is still piled high with food but his robes are looser. He looks as slender as a knife.

He had been laughing after the quidditch match even when his team had lost.

Crabbe's shoulder had supported him on the way to Madam Pomfrey after a hex fractured his wrist.

The frost on her chest melts and she doesn't turn away when he stares back at her with dove-grey eyes that are softer than they should be. She is certain that he is just good at hiding the truth. The skeletons in her closet quickly develop a crush on the ghosts of his past. He quirks a brow and she points to the entrance and mouths, "Wait for me."

She keeps aside her yogurt and peach and writes an elegant spell for dealing with howlers on a slip of parchment paper, wishing there were an elegant spell for dealing with ignorant and insensitive parents. She creases the paper over and over in the short time it takes for the hall to clear of students. She walks awkwardly to where he waits and hands it to him, crotch tingling. "Reading books comes handy sometimes."

She nearly cringes at how defensive she sounds and scuttles away before he can reply, leaving the snitch is in his court again. If only he gives her one thin slice of fresh assurance that he is willing to catch it, she will confess, 'But I get your point.'

She starts frequenting a patch near the whooping willow as if it were her new library. Her friends don't miss her, they probably think she is at the actual library. She recalls her goofy birthday cake and accepts that she has been unfair to them. Case in point, Ron and Harry are teenage guys who wear their underwear inside out and call it a fresh day. She has walked in on them kissing apples and weirder stuff, not each other but...close, in preparation of the day a girl would agree to go near them.

Obviously they care in their own doofus-like, precious way.

Being in nature cheers her spirits and reminds her of other things she had either ignored or forgotten. Especially the seasons from her childhood, of the summers when everything had smelt of honeysuckle and, of the winters, where everything had smelled like wet leaves. Being a lone child had brought her exclusive attention but also a comfort in being alone and habit of preoccupying herself with her curiosity.

She writes a twelve-page long letter to her parents, baring all sore insecurities and bitter, devouring doubts.

Their response is immediate, accepting of everything she is, and so brimming with love and affection that it cracks open a ray of sunshine in her chest.

She stares at their accompanying still life muggle photograph, spots a wrinkle on her mother's face and a patch of white on her father's head which hadn't been there before and resolves to write to them every week.

A gnome bites her pinkie and runs away before she can process what has happened, making her curse and laugh and forget about taking herself so seriously.

She sleeps like a baby that night.

She starts bringing a pencil and pad to her spot near the willow. She is crap at drawing, doesn't have an artistic or whimsical bone in her body, but tries anyway.

In the end she convinces herself that this drawing is not that crap and posts it to Viktor. He surprises her by agreeing.

She knows for a fact that he has never liked Draco Malfoy's face.

She doesn't feel his stares anymore and accepts the pang in her stomach as one of disappointment.

Snape awards ten points to Gryffindor for her essay, praises her suggestion on cross breeding muggle medicinal plants with the magical ones in potion for gnome bites with a thin press of lips that could, if one were addled enough to zoom in, pass off as a smile.

She is addled enough because she earned it. Snape is many things but also fair. Even though the bite had hurt, she thinks it is awesome to experiment and discover own answers just because she can.

She isn't at a single point in the spectrum. She is the spectrum itself.

It is not even evening and she is at her new favorite place again. Her pencil strokes come out more spontaneously now, hand moving with a little more ease. Out of nowhere, a form comes to loom in front of her, blocking the sunrays on her pad. She fumbles to snap it shut and pulls out her earphones, managing to tangle both and drop her pencil at the same time. She tries to arrange everything as gracefully as she can, which is by shoving it all in her bag while mentally cursing her absent mindedness and his intimidating presence that always hovers, never quite touches.

Her heart thumps with the loudness of a giant's trampoline workout in her ears, obnoxious, not funny at all, and just effing impossible to ignore. She gets up with the support of the silver birch's trunk and leisurely brushes the dust off her backside, making a show of fastidiousness while her insides pray with solemn panic that he hadn't noticed-

"Why were you sketching me?" He asks bluntly.

-not that she ever believed Trelawney's Divination lecture on people being born under lucky stars. Maybe it was one of those things where you had to suspend disbelief and just keep faith for it would work.

"Why are you here?" She counter-questions, staring at the ground, willing it to quit being cliched and push out an invisibility cloak instead of a tree for once in its dull, routine life.

He takes a step towards her and she looks up again. He looks thinner than before but calm, intent. His tongue is moist-cherry red as he repeats, "Why were you sketching me?"

His tone is demanding, insistent, as if he is pushing something towards her. She doesn't want to run away anymore. Of all the people she had wanted attention from, there had been only one who had given it to her in a way that she had never wanted but always needed. Much more than she gave him credit for.

Even though he had to do it in his confusing and precious way. They were like two people who spoke different languages and only knew curse words and insults from the other party's spoken tongue. But they can work through that together...if he wanted it too.

"Why would I sketch you?" She tilts her head, understanding the uncertainty behind his questions now that she was repeating the words, her toes curling in anticipation. Her resolve to set a new tone between them that is playful and earnest is shaking. She gives it her best shot anyway. "Maybe because you are beautiful."

She watches his throat move as a sound comes out—a growling sort of laugh-suddenly becoming loud and clear. His crescent-moon eyes frame his laugher. A waning moon would wax at the sight of him, she notes in a daze. The words she has been eager to tell him for so long finally find their cue to spill out. "I wanted to tell you about my discovery and of how I think certain things have changed...just a little bit."

His eyes turn molten, lashes thick with luster. His palm extends to her side, hanging awkwardly mid-air in the space between them. "Care to share over a walk?"

She makes zero effort to control the huge grin that is spreading on her face as she zips her fingers through his. "Can do for hot cocoa at Hogsmeade. Your treat!"

Fin.