CHAPTER 12 - Until You Came Along
...
Mornings had always seemed magical to Hermione. The gentle disappearance of one celestial body for the sake of another, the advent of sweet golden light to illuminate the earth, the delicate noises of slumbering creatures steadily awakening...everything added to the tranquility of the early hours. Hermione's family had always relished sunrises by gathering on the front porch and watching the rays part the skies. The smell of freshly mown grass would be complemented by the aroma of coffee swirling in mugs and brown pieces of toast cooling on brightly colored plates. There had never been much to say in those sacred moments of the morning, but Hermione now felt that only affectionate silence could have conveyed so much in so little time.
She stood now at the window and watched as the eyes in her reflection swam with tears. She missed having a family. The Golden Trio era had ended almost unceremoniously, and she longed to savor the joy of such constant relationships again. Harry and Ron would never cease to be like her brothers - meeting them had been, without a doubt, one of the happiest occurrences of her often difficult life. How many invaluable memories had she crafted with them by her side...the loveliest recollections of her school life carried the twinkle of their eyes, the music of their boyish roars of laughter, and the fierce protectiveness with which they forever regarded her. Her days had never been boring, thanks to their red-cheeked, joke-filled, curse-laden company; if anything, Hermione frequently had spent her summer vacations wishing futilely that Professor Dumbledore would announce the cessation of all breaks from that moment onwards. Of course, this had never come true, so her family dinners had consisted largely of heavy, melodramatic sighs being expelled as her parents watched her with a mixture of mild exasperation and amusement. As Hermione had gotten older, her mother had sought to become more attuned to her serious daughter's deeper sentiments, and the following exchange would often arise after dinner:
"So darling, tell me."
Hermione would quirk an eyebrow at her mother's comically curious expression. "Tell you what?"
Her mother replied with a conspiratorial wink and smile, "You know..."
"All I know is that I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't be so imperious, dear." The brown eyes sparkled with a motherly wickedness. "That Harry has grown up into quite the handsome man, hasn't he?"
Hermione would groan in an award-winning show of disbelief and chagrin before exaggeratedly rolling her eyes. "Muh-ummm, you have to stop trying to find juicy bits of gossip embedded in my entirely average life. I don't know what Harry looks like. Maybe he's like a Veela, maybe he's like a weasel, but Merlin knows I don't care!"
This was almost entirely true. There had been a brief episode in the young Granger's life - fifth year, to be exact - when she had seen her dark-haired compatriot through a new lens, one which tinged the bottle-green of his eyes with a sweetness she had not noticed before. The tumultuous puppy-love period drove her into a cliched frenzy; suddenly, her class notes, occasional daydreams, and late night speculations were framed with a certain someone's initials and decorated with the glint of his smile. She had fought hard to keep the bubbling tenderness under wraps, but sometimes it had slipped out in the guise of prolonged eye contact or unprecedented blushes. The good news (in her opinion) was that the flurry of excitement rapidly faded - she didn't know exactly why or when, but at some point, the infatuation toned itself down to the point that she could hardly fathom how such an attraction had been produced in the first place. The wholly dedicated scholar as always, she had inwardly rejoiced at her newfound liberation and used the "incident" as motivation to propel herself into academics with fresh rigor.
Her mother, needless to say, was not aware of all this, and she mercilessly pursued the topic.
"Ah yes, speaking of weasels...what about your other friend? I saw a photo, you know. He's quite fit. Like an adorable carrot!" Cheeky laughter echoed along the walls.
"Mother, for Merlin's sake, don't start up on that again! Ronald Weasley is nothing more than a good friend," Hermione explained with emphasis. "And in case you're skeptical, I give you my word that he will always remain a good friend. He and I are far too different, mum. We would never fit."
This conclusion had been cemented by Ron's whirlwind romance with resident airhead, Lavender Brown. What had possessed him to vacuum that imbecile's motormouth with his tongue, she'd never know.
"All right, all right," her mother chuckled as she fondly put an arm around her daughter's shoulders. "I guess I need to trust that my little one has solid taste in men. Just remember that you've got someone at home who's bored silly with the telly, and she could use a bit of entertainment and drama in her life if her darling daughter would allow it. Whenever you decide to properly fall in love with some gorgeous bloke you're too good for, let your poor old mum know, won't you?"
Hermione slowly massaged her shoulder as she tried to swallow the sadness and gazed at the streets growing slick from the light rain. Not far off, her oldest friend was perhaps in the same position, absentmindedly staring at the streets speckled with fast-paced people leading fast-paced lives. Did she know? Did the woman know what she had lost, what she had unwittingly relinquished when her mind had folded in on itself? Did a sting of pain or prick of yearning ever plunge into the fabric of her subconscious?
Did she know that miles away, now curled into a mess of ragged sobs and drenched cheeks and crumbling hopes, her only daughter lay thinking it would have been better if her own mind had been sacrificed?
This was how Andrea found her a minute later before swooping onto the bed and firmly drawing the disconsolate girl into her arms.
"Oh, Herms, darling, don't do this to yourself. Don't do this."
Hermione could only offer more sobs in response. How could she put words to what she felt? How could she put words to the tempest within, to the dizzying levels of hopelessness and loneliness that abruptly laid siege to her heart?
"Listen, love," Andi said firmly as she plucked away the curls that were matted against Hermione's cheeks. "I know you're at a loss. I know you're in so much excruciating mental pain, the kind many of us can't even imagine. But you know what? The Hermione Granger I have seen and known is stronger than this. She cries, yes, and she aches, yes. But never, I repeat, never does she succumb to her fate like this. The Hermione Granger I know is a master of her own fate. She sets the rules, she wins the games, and she alone can be the cause of her own defeat."
Andi gently wiped the tears still seeping out from under her best friend's lids. "You are such a strong woman, Herms. You're the strongest of the bunch. You're Hermione bloody Granger! There's nothing you can't do!"
Hermione pushed herself up into a decent sitting position and tucked her hair behind her ears. Her voice cracked as she spoke. "Thank you, Andi...I'm sorry you saw me like this."
"Girl, shut up! I have seen you do so much worse, it's not even funny. Just be grateful I'm not snapping pictures of you right now!"
And just like that, most of the darkness was removed from Hermione's mind. She had always encountered books and movies which extolled the virtues of a friend whose mere presence could be therapeutic, but with Andi, this notion had actually been proven.
Rubbing at her nose in a very unglamorous fashion, Hermione smiled and asked, "So, what brings you here?"
Andi sniffed. "You mean apart from your cataclysmic state of affairs and this thoroughly dismal weather? This!" Her exclamation was accompanied by a grand flourish which revealed a long, black bag draped across an armchair.
"What exactly is that?" Hermione inquired with more than a little trepidation.
"It's a dress, of course!" Andi squealed. She grabbed the bag and all but flung it at Hermione's face out of sheer madness. "It's a fan-bloody-tastic dress for a fan-bloody-tastic model!"
Hermione laid the bag aside and blinked confusedly at the blonde who was practically beside herself due to excitement. "I don't understand. What's it for?"
"To wipe your perfect little ass with!"
"Really, Andi, was that necessary."
"I'm sorry!" Andi huffed, not sounding apologetic in the least. "It's just that you'd think my dearest friend would show a tad bit more enthusiasm for my sake upon being presented with one mother of a dress!"
Hermione rolled her eyes and slowly unzipped the bag, not yet daring to remove the outfit from the bag's inky depths. "If you could trouble yourself to inform me of your intents and purposes, I would be much obliged."
Andi inhaled deeply and then let loose: "We'regoingtoaballthat'sbeinghostedatMalfoyManortohonoryouandMalfoy!"
"Excuse me?"
"I said, we're going to a ball that's being hosted -"
"No. Nothing doing. You can't make me."
Andi narrowed her eyes and hissed, "What did you just say?"
"I said no. I won't go."
"Oh yes, you will."
"I don't think so."
"You don't have a bloody choice!"
"That is incorrect."
Without another word, Andrea ripped the bag out of Hermione's hands, violently pulled the zipper up, and slammed the dress's hanger onto Hermione's closet rack. The bag swung rather pathetically, almost as if offering its meek apologies on behalf of the brown-haired girl who had angered the human-shaped explosive.
Hermione crossed her arms petulantly across her chest and stared at her friend. "I don't understand why you're so riled up."
"Riled up!" Andi practically screeched. "Darling, I'm not riled up. I just don't get how you can be so obtuse as to throw away opportunities that are practically clawing at your door. Forget for a second, if you can, that you will be sharing breathing room in a confined space with your sworn enemy, and instead think of all the networking and ladder-climbing you'll be doing! This is going to be a sparkling event filled with sparkling gowns and sparkling people, and you cannot, for the sake of your damn career, throw this all away because your ego is blocking the path."
"My ego is far from problematic," Hermione retorted defensively, a little wounded. The last time someone had referenced her ego had been in Hogwarts. "You just honestly can't grasp the depth of my history with Malfoy."
A loud groan filled the room. "Merlin, I don't know how many more times I have to hear you spout the same tripe."
"I think I need some space now."
Andi shrugged. "Fine by me. I'll just leave this gorgeous thing here. Do me a favor and get over this nonsense with Malfoy before it makes you do something regrettable."
Hermione turned back to the window as the other girl Disapparated. How could she explain to her the feelings which now churned and swirled like potions in her stomach? How could she explain the hike in her heart rate whenever she thought of the encounter in the garden? How could she calmly discuss the way she grew ridiculously self-conscious every time she passed by a certain someone at work, always training her eyes on the ground so they would not be tempted to rise to meet his?
The thought of this extravaganza excited her - there was no doubt about it. However, her interest wasn't piqued by thoughts of sparkling gowns and sparkling people; all she could contemplate was how his eyes were so adept at stripping her bare. How his soft voice nestled in the hollows of her bones and how his loud voice reverberated in her ribcage. How the curve of his lips was an engraved invitation to a world unexplored.
Merlin, have mercy. I'm a loon. I'm getting more and more carried away by the moment.
But the dynamics had changed. They had changed solidly and irreversibly, yet the difference was both disarming and alluring. It was so strange, this thing she felt tugging along the frayed edges of her nerves. It was him. It was her. Maybe the problem was that she hadn't lingered near a man in a long, long time. Perhaps this was just her body indicating that she had needs which had gone unfulfilled long enough, that the heady mix of biology and imagination was reaching an all-time high of potency which required speedy attention.
Or maybe she was just a bloody idiot.
It was also strange how the thought of Malfoy was powerful enough to temporarily drive the image of her mother out of her mind. Of course, her mother was always wallowing in her mind, either in the back or in the front, but something about Malfoy made the sting a little less painful. The ache that typically seeped from her brain into her blood and made her muscles grow heavy with sadness was now a little less forceful, a little less hateful. This was not a phenomenon with which Hermione was familiar. Life beginning with the magical world had never gifted her respite, even after the most prominent threats had been eradicated. No, she was not bitter. She was mature enough to comprehend and accept that life was a mosaic crafted with both glittering gems and muddy earth, that the beauty lay in the confluence of emotions extracted from opposite hemispheres.
It was just. Well. She was just tired. Exhausted. Drained. She often felt wizened and lost, like a senile, gray-haired woman caught in a net of responsibilities which she felt she no longer deserved to wrestle.
Her gaze fell on her small coffee table stacked with sheafs of parchment and scattered pages. That poor table with the faded paint bore the weight of her bills, academics, and official paperwork without ever knowing the pain which lay behind those sheets.
But it's not just inanimate objects that hold things up, is it?
Andi bore the weight of her tears. Her mother blankly bore the weight of her negligence. Eric bore the weight of their clumsy fledgling of a relationship. Blaise bore the weight of her downright desperation.
And Malfoy?
Malfoy did something else altogether.
...
Draco genuinely had no idea how the days and nights had passed quickly enough for the ball to already have arrived. It had spent copious time lurking just around the corner, concocting dastardly plans to ruin his peace and sanity, and now, without warning, here it was, the damn thing.
Perhaps "without warning" was a bit of a far-fetched claim.
He'd watched his mother sweep the entire household into a veritable hurricane of frenzied activity. Floors were scrubbed, walls were repainted, chandeliers were shined, armchairs were upholstered, flowers were arranged, portraits were rearranged, drapes were removed, and rooms were refurbished. There was a spring in her step he had rarely observed before, and it brought him an inexplicable kind of happiness.
Narcissa Malfoy was a keystone and a matriarch, but above all, she was a woman; she was a woman who had known pain as both a friend and foe. Pain ran its fingers along the skin under her jaded eyes and gently drew out tears it would later wipe away. Pain delivered blow after unrelenting blow to her floundering mind, but then it enveloped her in a fiery embrace that lent her the strength to carry on for her son. She had resigned herself long ago to a lifetime of two marriages: one to Lucius, and one to his hatred. When Lucius had passed on, so had the shackles that had remained mostly invisible to the outside world.
After Narcissa, no one had heaved a greater sigh or wept more tears of relief than Draco.
That was why he begrudgingly allowed the ball to occupy the Manor's halls. Though he would have a hard time admitting it to his perpetually snickering best friend, he longed for something, some kind of human glow to bring life to the place. Flowers and fresh curtains did a decent job at bandaging old wounds, but nothing could trump the power of warmth that flowed and danced and drifted lazily through the corridors, as sweet as honey, as weightless as light itself.
Draco stared down at his hands as he perched on the edge of his bed. These hands had touched her. Not these hands, his hands. He slowly turned them over and over in his lap, flipping them back and forth as if trying to decipher a mystery inscribed in his palms and knuckles. Why did he touch her? Why did he no longer have the basic sense to live and let live? Why did he, at the sight of her drippy eyes and downturned mouth, feel compelled by some nameless force to draw her to his chest and breathe her scent and burrow his fingers in that mountain of hair…
"I see you've gotten ready, dear."
He looked at the doorway to see his mother dressed in regal, periwinkle robes that softened the lines on her face and silver of her eyes. She walked over to him in her memorably ethereal manner and took his large hands in her smaller ones, all the while smiling tenderly at him.
"You're so handsome," she whispered almost reverently as she gazed at him. "You're so very handsome, my darling."
He watched as tears surfaced under her lashes and his hands inadvertently tightened their grasp on hers.
"Draco?"
"Yes, mother?"
"Do you know how much I love you?"
"Yes, mother."
Narcissa shook her head, a little ruefully, a little wearily. "No, you don't, my darling. And perhaps you never really will," she said as she brushed a lock of his flaxen hair from his face.
He did not know what to say.
"Draco?"
"Yes, mother?"
"Can you promise me something?"
He said nothing, allowing the silence to convey his acquiescence.
"Promise me you'll let somebody love you as much as I do."
His eyes widened considerably as he absorbed her words. He lowered his head so that his hair would lightly fall back into place around his face, framing the now-vulnerable features that carried more vestiges of his mother than ever of his father.
"Can you promise me that?"
He nodded haltingly even as doubt laid siege to his mind. What was he playing at, making larger-than-life promises about something as tumultuous and transient at love? He'd learned enough in his life to know that opening yourself up to someone else could only spell trouble. Love played second fiddle to the desire to exploit and destroy one another. There was no point in believing otherwise.
But this was his mother. So he nodded.
"You are the light of my life," she whispered as she put her slender arms around him and rested her cheek on top of his bowed head. "Never forget that."
He pulled back and offered her a small smile as he rose to his feet. The velvet of his dark emerald robes cascaded to the floor, and she nodded in approval at his choice of attire. With a flourish, she extended her hand for him to tuck in the crook of his elbow and lead them out of the room.
As they approached the top of the main bifurcated staircase, Draco felt a sudden bout of nervousness bombard his stomach. His complexion must have appeared quite sallow because his mother patted his forearm reassuringly and lightly kissed his cheek even as the magnificent front doors swung open to allow the first guests to enter.
Within twenty minutes, the entire length from the main entrance to the far corner of the ballroom was filled with ostentatiously dressed people all chattering and drinking and nibbling on a delicious array of finger foods. In the corridor, the men were generally gathered in clusters here and there, booming with conversation about things like dragon poaching and international Quidditch as if their testosterone forbade topics any less macho. The women glided fluidly from as if moving through designated stations, exchanging pleasantries and ongoing commentary with all the right people at all the right times. The ballroom itself was a mess of puffed chests enticing scarlet lips from afar as amber liquid cascaded down throats and emboldened the weak and meek. Jaunty yet elegant music played continuously as couples, old and young, waltzed and pranced across the floor not unlike hyperactive ponies. (Or at least, this was how it appeared to Draco.) The space was a riot of colors and twinkling jewels as women dipped and turned in time to the music.
Of course, Draco observed all this while lurking in a corner blessedly far from the tipsier guests. Of course.
He had not had much of a chance to speak to Blaise so far. The man was entirely caught up in mingling with all the wretches who made the mistake of crossing his path. Not a soul was spared as Blaise charmed men and women alike who fell prey to his easy charisma and friendly banter. Draco felt slightly affronted that he was not his friend's priority, but he'd also already endured enough mindless conversation and compliments to last a year, so the offense did not affect him too deeply.
Draco had just turned to grab a crystal goblet of wine when an unbelievably irritating voice pierced the air.
"Draaaaaco, daaaaarling!"
With a poorly disguised grimace, he swiveled around to come face to face with a woman whose countenance swiftly induced memories of sloppy schooltime trysts and screaming matches reminiscent of goblin wars. Pansy Parkinson, armed with her own brimming goblet of wine, leered at him with an expression as pointed as her teeth, and he willed himself to not brashly comment on the neckline that left little to his imagination (not that he didn't already know what lay under there, fucking hell).
"Pansy," he managed. "Hello."
She practically purred at him in response. "Draco, daaaarling, why aren't you out there dancing and drinking? A man as divine as you shouldn't be hiding away here like some recluse!"
He could smell too much wine and too little propriety on her breath. It was unfortunate he could not maintain a conversation without inhaling.
She tugged on his arm with her free hand and shoved her face close to his ear, the sensation of her moist breath sending a slight shudder down his spine. "Come on, you sexy thing, why are you being shy?" Her breasts nodded and jiggled as if in encouragement.
He stiffened and raised his head, anxious to locate an escape route, and that was when he saw her.
Her.
Her in an emerald gown that rivaled the hue of his robes. Her with the burgundy lips that carried secrets and laughter all at once. Her with the hair that fell in careless, artistic coils around her face. Her with the brown eyes that spoke of immeasurable sadness yet hinted at treasures far beyond anyone's reach.
Her.
His throat went dry. Time seemed to freeze everyone else in place even as she gracefully moved through the throng to find a cleared space. His breath hitched as he traced the delicate skin of her shoulders and throat with his eyes, ever so carefully and slowly as if she might vanish in a heartbeat. As if his life depended on the capture of this single, exquisite memory.
Oblivious to the endless stream of nonsense emerging from Pansy's mouth, he was rudely awakened from his reverie by a tall, dark-haired man who expertly maneuvered his way through the crowd to approach Granger. With a furrowed brow, Draco saw the man's build was formidable and his shoulders were broad - whoever this was, he had spent considerable time in athletics. Draco scrutinized the man's clothes as well, noting with some displeasure that the tailoring was impeccable, thus hinting this man also hailed from a wealthy background. He also looked vaguely familiar.
"Draco? Draco! Why aren't you paying attention!"
Draco glanced down at Pansy to see she was glaring at him with a loathsome look scrawled all over her face. Pansy whipped her head around to find what had been the object of Draco's undivided attention, and her lip curled as Granger fell into her line of fire.
"Draco," she seethed without looking at him. "Don't tell me you were gawking at that bitch."
Anger flared up within him, but he tried to appear composed. "There's no need for name-calling."
"But you were, weren't you?"
His refusal to answer was met with a much louder interrogation. "You were, weren't you!"
"Pansy, for Merlin's sake, I don't have time for this. Why don't you go off and make merry with your batty friends?"
"Go to buggery, Draco," Pansy hissed, outraged. "How dare you make eyes at a Mudblood when I stand before you!" She glared at the tall man smiling and conversing with Granger. "And how dare Nott stoop so low in such high society!"
Ah, so that's who the bloke was. Theodore Nott. No wonder he seemed so familiar.
Before Draco had a chance to talk some sense into (read: strangle) Pansy, she charged into the crowd with her eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, heading straight for Granger who was laughing at something Nott had said. Within seconds, Pansy was directly in front of the other woman, and even before the dark liquid arced out of her cup, Draco knew exactly what was going to happen.
With a tremendous splash, the wine covered the entire front of Granger's gown, leaving her shell-shocked and paralyzed with mortification as everyone paused to take in her ruined ensemble and stained chest. Pansy's nauseatingly fake exclamations of horror and chagrin were nothing less than caws of laughter, and Draco rushed forward to reverse whatever damage he could. He was stopped in his tracks by the sight of Nott, draping his thick robes around Granger, taking her by the hand, and leading her away from the gossiping onlookers into the hallway.
Draco spared a single moment to throw Pansy a look of pure disgust before hurrying after the pair who had left with one head held high and the other dropping far below. He quickly strode out of the ballroom and saw them enter a smaller corridor untouched by the other guests. He followed stealthily before halting outside of the washroom into which they'd gone. He could hear their voices from where he stood.
Granger was clearly crying. "This is so embarrassing. What on earth am I going to do now? How can I go back out there?"
Nott's deep voice contrasted sharply with her tremulous one. "Don't worry," he said soothingly. "People here have nonexistent attention spans. They'll forget about it in an instant."
"And my dress...oh my dress, it's ruined."
"Don't be silly. All we need is a good cleaning charm." There was a slight pause. "See?" Nott's voice became a bit cheerful. "It looks as good as new now. And so do you."
"I'm such a mess. I must look like a fool," Granger insisted, utterly distraught.
"You look nothing of the sort."
"Do you think the entire ballroom saw?" She heaved a huge sigh and muttered, "Oh, they probably did, didn't they."
Nott's voice changed again to become pleasantly reassuring. "Even if they did, you have nothing to be ashamed about. Pansy Parkinson is no less temperamental nor dramatic than a bloody hippogriff. If anything," he added derisively, "the whole ballroom is probably verbally skewering her as we speak."
There was the sound of the faucet running before it gave way to quiet sniffling.
Draco could stay hidden no longer and promptly burst into the washroom to find Nott delicately dabbing at Granger's tear-stained cheeks with a handkerchief. Granger turned scarlet upon Draco's intrusion and reflexively jerked back from Nott.
Nott tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and coolly extended his hand. "Ah yes, Malfoy. It's been a long, long time."
Draco noted the use of the surname and chose to respond in kind. "Indeed, Nott," he replied with a single shake of the proffered hand. "It has been a while."
He turned his attention to Granger who bit her lip and shamefacedly stared at the ground. "Are you all right?"
She nodded with cheeks as ruddy as before.
Nott ran a hand through his hair before reaching out and lightly adjusting his robe around Granger. The gesture made Draco's throat tighten, and he hastily made a show of clearing his throat which led Nott to address him with raised eyebrows.
"Are you all right?"
Draco narrowed his eyes almost imperceptibly and said gruffly, "Yes, of course."
"I assume you saw what happened out there?"
"Yeah, I saw it all." And more by coming back here apparently.
"What do you intend to do about it?"
Draco blinked, unsure what to offer. "Not much to do now, is there? That tart's chalked it up to an accident, that's all."
"Can we please not discuss this any longer," Granger implored in a small, quiet voice.
"Of course," Nott answered as he smoothly put his arm around her hunched shoulders and tucked her close to him. "Let's go somewhere, far away from the useless masses. Perhaps a balcony. I know this manor quite well."
Draco had a hard time getting past the fluid motion that anchored Granger to Nott's side, but he flicked his gaze to the side to subtly shoot daggers at the man who in turn regarded him with calmness.
"You and I will have to catch up sometime, Malfoy. Probably not tonight."
Draco clenched his fist and tried to avoid gritting his teeth. "Sure."
With that, Nott led Granger back out by sidestepping Draco who had not budged since he'd entered. As they departed, Granger softly sighed, "Thank you, Theodore."
The words struck Draco with the force of a slap. She had just met the damn fellow, and his bloody name already sounded so sweet and fragile on her tongue. None of that surname nonsense with him, it seemed. These two blithely entertained a level of familiarity that shoved the proverbial thorn deep into Draco's side. He was filled with a sudden, overwhelming desire to cast an Unforgivable at the great oaf's fat head.
He walked back out into the corridor and watched them stroll further and further away before they turned the corner and out of sight. He abruptly felt miserable and alone as he realized he hadn't spoken more than one sentence to Granger all night.
And now she was gone, off with darling "Theodore," probably sipping something as sweet as the tall bastard's words, probably swaying towards him and those stupidly broad shoulders with her eyes steadily closing and her lips steadily parting...
There was a pounding ache in his chest and when he closed his eyes, it took a shape in his mind that twisted and changed until it formed a single word.
Her.
Draco opened his eyes and imagined her to be standing, smiling, and swaying right there in front of him before closing his eyes again.
Her...mione.