Tactile Theatre
Hermione was sitting in the library, watching the pages of the book she was reading ripple, and the delicate tingling sensation in her fingertips as she slid them under the words. She knew that her every sensation was being magnified by the drugs, but she had figured out the exact dose that allowed her to be blissfully out of reality, but not so far out that she couldn't pay attention in class. It often made professor's faces go through subtle color changes; McGonagall had a horrible habit of appearing to be plaid just like her dresses. She found herself sometimes touching everything delicately and suddenly sensing things within objects that she'd never felt before, for example, warm spots on the Potions classroom tables where certain potions had been spilled and left warm residues that Hermione felt she sensed in colors. Meals were equally interesting, her food as tactile and fascinating as everything else; the subtleties of tastes and flavors were amazing.
The library was warm for January, but she could feel the heat from the fireplace rolling onto her skin in waves, the warm musty smell of old parchment book pages, and the light sound of other students' whispers in the aisles of books. She dipped her quill, stood to put her books back and prepare to leave. She was wandering in an aisle near the far corner of the library, trying to remember where she'd gotten her book, when someone caught her eye. She replaced her book and tucked her now tight short curls behind one ear, and walked as softly as possible toward him. She could see that he was reading, and hear the soft deep tone of his voice as he just barely whispered the words to himself, and smell the light scent of sage soap from his skin. For some reason, he didn't scare her. She was sure she didn't trust him either, but the fact of his being male didn't terrify her. She thought maybe she could learn to trust him, if he didn't do anything to hurt her and continued to act as he had the other night. He was understanding, he hadn't said too much, or asked any questions, just offered to help. She had always perceived that the world was black and white to him, that things were right or wrong, and that if he offered help that was all he was offering. But something about her mood today, something about her desire to feel everything, made her reach out and play her fingertips into the silk white hair hanging down onto the back of his neck. He turned with a start, and at first his eyes held anger, then surprise, then confusion.
Draco turned to face whoever had startled him, the tiny light touch sending shivers up his spine and making his heart pound in his chest, somewhere between fear and excitement. He rounded on her; there she was, standing there fascinated with her hand still hovering in the space between them. He spoke quietly, partly because they were in the library, partly because he did not want anyone to hear them, but mostly because he was amazed that she had touched him.
"What the bloody hell was that for Granger?!"
"I just wanted to know what it felt like. Everything feels fascinating today." He chose to ignore that she was at least a little high, and instead chose to talk about school,
"You finish your Potions essay?" She nodded, but she was staring at his face, and it was making him nervous, so he spoke up,
"What exactly are you looking at Granger?" She spoke matter-of-factly and softly disarming him completely,
"You." Her hand reached up, only a little tentative, and she placed a fingertip, feather-light, on his cheek. He was too busy staring at her face, the delicate opening of her mouth, and the honey color of her eyes. He felt it again, his heart pounding in his chest, and turned away quickly, wrenching his face away from her hand. When he looked back after putting his book back up on its high shelf, she was gone, but a note was in his open hand on a tiny scrap of parchment:
Common Room. Talk. Midnight. Bring homework if you want. Nott.
He knew that she had written the name at the end to mean that bringing homework would distract the Head Boy, but it almost looked as if Nott had written the note. He slid it in his pocket, and walked back out into the open area of the library, his mind racing. Concentrating on anything for the remainder of the day was completely out of the question, it was impossible. Something about her touching him made his heart race, and his mind run at such speeds that every thought became blurred. He felt as flushed as if she had kissed him, but she hadn't. The thought crossed his mind for only a split second that he might have wanted her to, but he brushed it away immediately. She was…Granger, and a Muggleborn, a Gryffindor and most importantly, she hadn't known what she was doing. She was high, presumably avoiding reality because of what happened to her. Kissing anyone, especially him, was probably completely out of the question. These thoughts zoomed around, but none, not even those of his schoolwork, was able to stick long enough that he could think anything completely through. It was maddening. He was the type that liked to think everything through, and now she'd gone and ruined his thought process. He swore under his breath, and sat running his fingers through his hair at the library table before going back to the dungeons to try to get some sleep. He didn't want to lose sleep just because he stayed out late to see Granger tonight.
Hermione was walking back to the Head's Dorm, tracing her fingers along the corridor wall, feeling the rough natural coolness of the stones, all the while smiling and singing quietly to herself. She had touched him, proving that she was not afraid of him at all. His hair had been feather light, and fine, tickling her palm and his cheek had been warm and soft. Nothing about his actual person was as cold as his eyes used to be, and even they seemed to have softened. They were still blue gray, but the steely, calculated ice in them was no longer there, and when she sometimes caught him looking in her direction, she seemed to see a sage green aura about him, and his eyes held what might be called a certain amount of warmth. It surprised her at first, but the warmth was tempered with an expression that looked like guarded confusion, and this made her feel better about it all. He was thinking about something, but it couldn't possibly be her. She had nothing to fear from him, because he probably wanted as little to do with her as possible. She was so blissful in this line of thought that she didn't even see Harry following behind her and watching her every move.
She slipped into the Head's Common Room without looking behind her, and closed the door just seconds before Harry could have gotten a grip on the door and followed her in. She had played with fate, but she didn't even know it. Harry had been watching her and following her for days. He hadn't seen everything that had happened in the library, but he'd seen Hermione reach out and touch Malfoy's cheek, but that was enough to fill him with jealousy and rage. After all, he'd been friends with her for all those years, and he'd gone on to claim her physically, and now she was spending an unnatural amount of time with their worst enemy.
But she witnessed none of this. She was in her room, changing into her pajamas and grabbing a blanket. She settled herself in front of the fire with her bag and only taking a moment to appreciate for the thousandth time the texture of parchment before starting what little homework she had left to finish. Nott came in a moment later and waved a hand in front of her face—she must have looked dazed—and spoke harshly, annoyed,
"That Potter friend of yours is hovering by the door, why don't you let him in or tell him to bugger off. Either way, I don't like having the saint hanging around my bloody fuckin' door."
Hermione froze; but only for a moment. Then she bolted. She grabbed everything, no longer feeling the warmth of the fire or the plush fabric of her blanket or her interest in her homework and running for her door. She locked it swiftly; all she could feel was ice in her veins.
Nott stood there shocked, but just shook his head, muttered something about crazy mudbloods, and moved on to his room to face the mountain of homework he had to do. It didn't surprise him when Draco knocked on the portrait around 10; he'd been turning up a lot lately. Theodore figured something was off in Draco's life and he was looking for a reprieve with an equal and away from Slytherin Common Room. Nott knew how annoying Pansy could get, and Blaise's cottage industry was no more enlightening than watching snails shrivel up, so he could understand Draco's escapism. It did occur to him that he and Draco had never been especially close friends before and he wondered why for a moment, but he'd noticed enough change in the other boy since his father's incarceration in Azkaban to assume that he wanted a change of scenery, and this change included friends. Draco came in, dropped his bag solidly on the floor in front of the fire and pulled a bottle of Firewhisky out of his cloak. Nott didn't argue. They worked quietly for an hour or two, sipping on it, and then relaxed into talking and not working much at all. Draco found himself reading the same sentence over and over again in his Transfiguration textbook and not really caring. Nott suddenly spoke up,
"So what do you think is up with her?" he gestured with his head towards Hermione's door, slurring his words only a little, but his heavy eyelids suggested he was more intoxicated than he sounded. Draco was feeling warm, and his mouth worked before he could really stop it.
"I think someone hurt her, and now she's afraid." He tried to pass it off as a blasé statement with a shrug, but Nott seemed to be seriously considering these words before he nodded and spoke quietly,
"It makes sense. Someone really hurt my little sister last summer—dad nearly killed the kid—and she clammed up like that too. It's scary to think about that happening to a girl. I'd hate to be…a…girl." Nott had laid his head on the arm of the couch for just a moment, and immediately passed out. Draco knew this was his chance; he'd been worried since he walked in and felt something wrong on the air, so he stood as quickly as his legs would obey him and staggered to her door. He knocked softly, and finding it locked, called out quietly,
"Hey, Granger, it's me. What's wrong? Open up."
It was a moment before he heard a soft shuffling, and the heavy lock turning in the door. She peeked out through the inch she'd opened the door, and he could see she had been crying and was visibly shaking. His playful smirk immediately fell, and he showed his concern openly in his eyes. He had a harder time veiling his emotions when he had been drinking. He was definitely not drunk yet, but he wasn't sober either. She opened the door wider when she saw the sincerity in his face, and stepped aside to let him in. He did not hesitate in wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her close, but not too close, and squeezing her lightly to show that he cared. He did not want to scare her either, so he kept his grip loose, escapable. She fell into it, her knees buckling beneath her renewed fear, heart pounding, and her tears threatening to come back. Draco was almost pulled to his knees by the force of her fall, but continued to hold onto her, feeling like it was the right thing to do. She eventually stopped trembling and stood straight up again, looking up at him. She hadn't cried, he was impressed, but her bottom lip was still shivering a bit, and he swore he could actually hear her heart battling to escape even her body in fear. She spoke quietly, pulling her hands away from his neck to wring them together, but not removing herself from the circlet of his arms just yet.
"He was here," she shivered and stepped out of his grasp, "he was here. Nott said he was waiting…hovering outside the door…He's not supposed to be here. I can't see him. He can't come here, he can't he can't he can't'…"
She was shaking again now, not looking him in the eyes, and pulling down hard on her sleeves. He hated watching her twist her flesh like he knew she had been, hated seeing her open wounds the other night, hated knowing that Blaise was letting her fill herself with that awful shit. But then again, he didn't know how to make it better. He had no claim to her, and considering the implications of those words against what she'd been through, he didn't want to. It was all so confusing, this caring. Draco found his head was spinning lightly, but he was determined to stay standing, not fall down, and not show any weakness to her. She needs me to be strong right now, he thought, Mother would tell me that, she needs me to support her. Draco led the violently shivering girl over to her bed and pulled down the covers, noting that she was more sober than he'd seen her in weeks. Hermione shivered harder, thinking that he was trying to take her to bed, and then realized that he was tucking her in, thinking she was somehow chilled. She climbed in, and he pulled the covers up to her chin, and pulled her desk chair to her bedside. He whispered,
"Do you want me to stay? I can make sure nothing happens, that no one comes in and disturbs your sleep." She seemed to freeze at his slightly slurred speech and then spoke in a rush, all one breath, as if scared:
"But how will your absence go unnoticed in your own common room? And how will you get out in the morning without Theodore noticing? And what will you watch?" She hesitated slightly, "Will you promise not to hurt me while I sleep?"
Draco recoiled slightly, insulted, but as soon as he saw his angry face reflected in her eyes, he softened. He sighed heavily, and spoke no louder than a heavy breath articulated into words:
"I only meant for my presence to be a comfort Granger. Although now that I say it aloud, it does sound rather ridiculous considering who I am," he chuckled, and hesitated, "No, Granger, I will not stay all night, but only until you fall asleep, so as not to get caught. And I would never hurt you like he did…I may be…a bastard…but I'm not...like that."
He had struggled through the last statement, and as he looked up he noticed that her caramel eyes were starting to swim between the dark hazes of her eyelashes. He reacted before he could think, and as the first tears squeezed free, he reached forward and swept them lightly from her cheeks. She flinched at the first instant of touch, but quickly relaxed into the feather-light touch of his two fingertips against her peach skin. He felt her exhale softly, silently, relieved. She leaned back into her pillows, snuggling down into the covers, and looked him square in the eyes. He could see her cheeks rise from below the horizon of tightly tucked up blankets and knew that she was smiling at him. He returned it honestly, no need for a smirk that could be misconstrued, glad for the dim light in the room. She couldn't see it, but Draco found himself blushing at the idea of her smiling at him. How embarrassing, he thought.
It was well after midnight when he was sure she'd been asleep for at least an hour, and he padded silently out of her room, and out in to the corridors of Hogwarts, back to his own dorm, bed, and thoughts.
Draco laid down thinking about her sly, half-hidden smile from under the blankets, and the heat that had risen into his own cheeks at her expression. He found himself tempering his own confused emotions toward her against the blinding anger that he felt against whoever had hurt her. He understood that, anger was easy. The problem with his simple anger was that it led to the harder questions like 'Who was it?' and 'Why do I care so much?' Needless to say, it took him a while to fall asleep.
Hermione found herself dreaming of walking towards a figure in the snow—she knew instinctively it was Draco, thought she could not see him clearly, or tell why her dream-self was walking to him. She just knew it was him, and knew it felt safe in that moment.