Complicated

By: ScarletDeva

Author's Note: So I know I haven't posted in ages (and yes I did promise a regular posting schedule for Brownout) but Amazon rolled out the Kindle Worlds thing and I wasn't sure what that would do to the fanfiction world so I took a breather. It seems Kindle Worlds is pretty much dead so I feel comfortable stepping back in. So yeah. The second piece of this drabble set.

Summary: Draco watches Hermione and he sees clearer than most.

Disclaimer: Do I even need to do this?


Complicated.

I shouldn't be thinking about what that word means. I shouldn't be thinking about how it fits Hermione Granger.

But I am.

And she is.

I used to think she was all contained in her dirty blood swimming with words that she absorbed from swallowing book after book, adorned by the unkempt hair the color of mud and hideous huge teeth.

It was the simplicity of a black and white world. That world is gone, leaving me awash in shades of grey that are akin to the ones I catch swirling in my eyes as I catch my reflection wavering in the translucent surface of our potion. Chromes of grey. Black and white was easier.

But she's complicated.

She's as complicated as the sensations that encroach upon me as her hands brush against mine. Warm hands. Moist. And I can't help but wonder that, if I can capture them, turn them over, follow the lines of her palms with my fingertip, I can learn the taste of her edges, edges shadowed in simplicity.

She is a Gryffindor. That should make it easy. Red and gold. Fools rushing in. Quixotic stands. Simple and stupid. But she isn't any of that. She is marked by her patient smile and her even words and, when she is done, her reason trumps all other cards. How like a Slytherin, I think sometimes and wonder what she'd say if she knew why I smile. I like her complexity.

She's a creature of reason. But that's a lie. A lie perpetuated by her concise answers, raised hand, neatly printed script. A model of perfection hiding passion. It's a veneer broken by her woodland brown eyes, eyes the color of living trees. Our eyes meet sometimes too and I can see the flame of life within them. It is not just mundane trees they remind me of. No, she makes me think of trees that house dryads, forever innocent of sin, proud to bare themselves to the world. She isn't innocent though. Not pure and saintly. It is just that she cannot sin, for, in her, the sins of my world are virtues. The sins of any world.

It is a gentle sin I wish to commit. A sin that she can purge and yet, as I let my eyes meet hers, I let the moments linger and end, collecting them in a dark vault where all my unused moments stay, moments devoid of life, moments full of regret. My father once said regret is a refuge for the weak. A sanctuary of martyrs. I wish to taste the edges of her complexity, the lines of her passion tempered with reason and inflamed by it as well. I wish into the air, the same air that she infuses with the subtle scent of lilacs, the swish of the cascade of thick curls akin to branches, living branches, and I breathe in the air like she exhales passion. So, when my gaze touches hers again, I know some day I may cast off my regrets and explore her layers. And, as my hand once again brushes against hers, I realize that some day may be soon. Because Hermione Granger is complicated.