20
September 5th – Sunday night
Hermione slammed the door as she barreled into the room, escaping the whispers and stares of the others in the hallway. She cursed herself for the betrayal of hot tears she felt running down her cheeks. She wasn't supposed to be crying - she was pissed off! And her palms itched, not for any magical reason, but from a desire to hit him again.
The one good thing from the rage she was currently feeling was that now at least that tested the bounds of her accidental magic. It seemed that it was only fear that caused her body to react in an explosion she couldn't contain, otherwise, she'd surely have set this wing of The Willows on fire by now.
She paced her room, fighting the urge to blow a hole through Malfoy's door and rip him apart. He had been so adamant that he hadn't been the one to tell Pansy about Theo, and he certainly looked like he believed it. But, the threat of getting kicked out of here for violating the trust of their group sessions and being sent back to Azkaban probably enabled him to be more convincing than he'd been with his lies in Hogwarts.
Hermione had always prided herself on her ability to think logically, but right now, the fury she felt in her chest tightening to the point of constriction prevented her from seeing anything but red at the moment. She sat down roughly on her bed and forced herself to concentrate on the techniques Alys had her working on to control her breathing and stave off panic attacks. She didn't at all feel on the verge of one, but she didn't know what else to do to come down from what she was feeling.
Her mind kept returning to Pansy's face, her chin quivering as she tried to hold in the emotions that were threatening to overflow as she said to Hermione, "Tell that to Theo." She'd never once felt anything but irritation and resentment toward Pansy for her attempts at making her life hell. She'd lied to Rita Skeeter during the Triwizard Tournament about the completely fabricated love triangle between Hermione, Harry, and Viktor that resulted in immense hatred from the vast majority of the Wizarding World, bitterness from even those who she considered to be friends, and the pockmarked scars that now littered her hands from the bubotuber pus that she received in her mountain of hate mail.
In that moment though, when Pansy said that to her, Hermione didn't feel resentment and anger at all. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and laid bare for the world to see. Hadn't this been exactly what she'd feared about coming here? That everyone would judge her for her mistakes and not for her pain from the war. They all convinced her that she had nothing to fear, and yet here was the proof. The whole world would know now, and it wouldn't just be the people here who judged her, but everyone would. They'd all know her for who she was, a fraud and a murderer.
That thought pulled her out of the whirlwind of anger, and she felt like, with it, the world had been pulled from beneath her as well. She collapsed across the bed and cried, feeling her life, what little bit of a life she had left, crumble. She tried often to not think about having taken his life. But now, with the idea that everyone would know, it was like the true reality of it all was blinding.
After lying there, crying into her pillow until the last rays of the sun had faded behind her blinds, she sat up and began packing. It would only be a matter of time before they came to escort her out, so she might as well be productive.
When time for group rolled around and nobody had arrived to walk her out, Hermione stuck her head out of her bedroom door and peeked out into the hallway. She wasn't entirely sure what she expected, maybe Walt talking with the others as they whispered and pointed toward her room. Whatever it was she expected, there was no one in the hallway at all. The minutes ticked by. She cleaned herself up and healed her left hand after it had started to bruise, when finally, she heard a knock at her door.
She took a deep breath and opened the door, but instead of Walt's face on the other side, she was confused to see Dennis's tentative grin. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and said, "Umm, they asked me to come get you for group."
"Oh." She didn't really know what else to say, so she hesitantly took a step into the hall and followed him toward the counseling room. Halfway there, Dennis cleared his throat and said, "Nobody is going to say anything to the counseling team," he glanced toward her sheepishly, "in case you were worried about that."
She wanted to ask why, but she wasn't sure she wanted to know. She felt a tiny bit of the weight in her chest begin to ease, but she couldn't understand why even Seamus would want her to stay. Actually, since Malfoy had broken the sanctity of their group confidentiality, they could both be kicked out. She didn't particularly enjoy it here, but the failure of being kicked out would be embarrassing, and she didn't want to have to explain to her friends that she didn't even belong here.
What if it hadn't been Malfoy, after all? He had seemed so steadfast in proving that it wasn't him, and, when she'd opened the door, she'd seen on his face the exact moment when he thought Hermione had begun to blame him. That meant that perhaps he hadn't even been there to try and convince her that he wasn't the culprit. But, then, why had he come to her room in the first place? The idea that he had been coming to check on her was laughable in and of itself. He already made it perfectly clear that they weren't friends, so why would he care whether she was okay or not, not to mention the person who had hurt her to begin with was one his best friends.
Hermione's thoughts were interrupted as they made it to the counseling room, and before she could ask Dennis anything, he opened the door and stepped inside. Hermione had no choice but to follow him inside when she saw the others notice her standing behind him.
"Ah, here she is. You didn't want to join us tonight, Hermione?" Walt asked, his tone light.
She chanced a momentary glance at Draco and found him looking at the floor, though she could've sworn he had been looking at her when she walked in.
"Sorry, I… I lost track of time." She took her seat beside Nicola, afraid to look at anyone but the counseling team, afraid of what she'd see in the their faces.
"Better late than never," Walt said with a grin. "Now, I was just saying that we've had a rough week after starting CBT, and after the visits we've had tonight, I thought we'd keep it light."
Hermione's head shot up, thinking he was referring to her situation with Pansy and Draco, but she found Walt looking around at everyone, not at her specifically. Then she remembered that she hadn't been the only one who had a traumatic visit. Hermione turned slightly to look at Nicola and found her eyes red-rimmed and watery, her gaze intensely focused on the floor.
"We're going to be working on some mindfulness exercises tonight, just some ways to help each of you to learn to focus on the here and now rather than being trapped in the misinformation that your brain is sending you. Now, there are a …."
Walt's voice drowned out as Hermione allowed her mind to wander back to the events of the day. She had already been practicing mindfulness almost every night with Draco during Occlumency training, so she just pretended to be listening to Walt, vaguely aware of what was going on in the room around her.
She tried to think of any other possible explanation, honestly hoping that Malfoy wouldn't have been the one to have told her, but Hermione couldn't see any other way. The only other people who knew were Harry and Ron, and certainly neither of them would have said anything to her. Neither of them even speak to Pansy that Hermione knew of, other than when Pansy went to apologize to Harry for trying to send him to his death before the battle. Hermione was sure that her killing of Theo would not have come up in that conversation.
The other guests here knew about it, but she couldn't imagine Nicola saying anything, and none of the others were friends with Pansy. Hermione supposed that Seamus could have shared the information with someone, but why Pansy? Also, he had been toeing the line to keep from getting kicked out since their first day here. Why would he risk all of that just to embarrass Hermione?
When she reasoned it all out, she couldn't possibly think of any other explanation. Malfoy had to have told Pansy. But why would he? Other than the fact that they had all obviously been friends with Theo. Even that doesn't seem worth the risk. Surely, Pansy was a wildcard, and he couldn't have expected her to keep quiet about that, especially given her obvious hatred toward Hermione anyway.
When the session was over, Draco made a beeline for the door before any of the others had even left their seat. Hermione gave him plenty of time to get to his room before she even left, hoping they wouldn't have to cross one another's path.
After tossing and turning in bed for an hour, her mind racing, she figured tonight would be another sleepless night. Alys had instructed her during one of last week's sessions that when this happened, she should just get up and do something else rather than get more and more anxious in her bed. She checked the clock, and, realizing it was well after midnight, didn't bother to change out of her pyjama shorts and t-shirt before heading to the art therapy room.
Her anger had abated to a slow burn at least, but she was still anxious about the whole world learning that she wasn't quite the "Golden Girl" that everyone seemed to think she was. A part of her thought maybe it was a blessing of some sort; obviously, she'd never live up to that insane expectation, so perhaps getting it out into the open would at least relieve her of some of the weight of it all.
She opened the doors to the art therapy room and was halfway across the expanse of it before she flicked her wand to light the lamp. One side of the room was instantly lit with a hazy orange glow, and Hermione groaned when she saw that she wasn't alone at all. Draco sat on the couch where they normally practiced Occlumency.
He lifted his head slightly, almost lazily, to meet her gaze, and she turned mid-step toward the exit.
"Stay," he said from behind her, and Hermione could tell from the way the word lingered slightly on his lips that he had been drinking. She stopped, her heart in her throat at the heaviness of the request he just made, but she didn't turn to face him until he said, "I'll leave."
Of course, that's what he meant.
She turned around and walked slowly toward the couch, to her normal spot, but he hadn't stood yet. As she made it closer to him, she noticed that his right hand was swollen, and his knuckles were a deep shade of blue.
He must've seen where she was looking because he stood, took a long pull from his flask, and said with a half smile, "Nothing this won't fix."
Hermione rolled her eyes, remembering the loud bang she heard seconds after he slammed his door earlier. She'd never understood the idiotic things men did, like punching walls when they were angry. But she supposed it was better than punching her, which he so very clearly had wanted to do in the moment he had her backed against the wall, staring down at her in fury.
Hermione looked up at his face, she saw no signs of Occlumency in his eyes, but they were glassy from the alcohol. Without saying a word, she held her hand out to him. His eyes flicked from her face to her hand, and he lifted an eyebrow questioningly at her open palm.
"I healed my own hand after punching your bony face. Let me heal yours," she said, unable to mask the bite in her tone. He hesitated momentarily, his eyes searching her face for some sort of trick, before she added, "Or you can leave it. It'll feel lovely tomorrow morning… pair nicely with your hangover, I'm sure."
Reluctantly, he placed his hand in hers and inhaled sharply when he tried to straighten his fingers. "My face isn't bony," he mumbled.
She paused, her wand hovering a half-inch above his broken knuckles, and said, "This doesn't mean I'm not still angry with you."
He snorted and lifted his head, bringing his gaze to meet hers. When he narrowed his eyes at her, he said, "Well, I'm not particularly happy with you either."
She knew, after years of learning medical spells leading up to the war, that there was a graceful way to do this, but in that moment, the snarky remark still hanging from his lips, she narrowed her eyes in return and snarled, "Episkey."
The bones set with a loud snap, and he snatched his hand away from her, cursing and shaking it. He flexed his hand once, turning it over a few times to make sure he was healed properly, before turning to her and saying, flatly "Was that really necessary?"
She shrugged and sank into the couch. "I never claimed to be a healer." She snatched the flask out of his hand and put it to her lips, pausing once to say, "You're welcome, by the way."
She took a large drink, wincing at the sting, and handed it back to him. She twisted her ankles to one side, tucking her feet beneath her and tried to pretend like he wasn't still standing right above her. She immediately regretted having not changed into pants before leaving her room. After a moment, he turned away from her and began walking toward the door.
She sighed deeply, expelling the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. The second the sound left her mouth, he stopped, hesitated for a split second, and then turned back around. She watched him, her mouth open in shock, as he walked back to the couch, swaying slightly, and sat on his normal spot at the other end. Instead of facing forward, as he typically did during their Occlumency lessons, he threw his long legs across the length of the couch, crossing them at the ankle. He lifted his hands behind his head and stared haughtily across the couch at her, as if to say, "Your move."
She felt her face grow hot, both in agitation at his audacity and her own nervousness at having him appear so unrestrained this close to her. Less than three hours ago, he had her backed against a wall ready to hit her and now, here he was, stretched out beside her seemingly without a care in the world.
Before she could stop herself, she said, "I thought you were leaving."
He nonchalantly tilted his flask to his lips and said, "I've changed my mind."
"You're a child, you know that?" she asked, hoping her emotions didn't betray her attempt at indifference.
He drank heartily from his flask before saying, "Says the little girl who just punched me in the face a few hours ago."
She turned to the side as well, throwing her legs across the couch as well, pushing his to the side with her own. He shifted, pushing his legs as close to the back of the couch as he could get them, obviously uneasy at the way her leg brushed against his own. She knew she would always be a Mudblood to him, so she might as well lean into it and make him as uncomfortable as possible. She tilted her head to the side, trying not to notice the way her bare feet rested against his thighs, and replied, "Says the little boy who punched a wall because he was angry."
Instead of the heated reaction she was hoping for, he chuckled and reached across the couch to hand her his flask. "My father taught me to never hit a woman. He said nothing about walls."
She scoffed as she took it from his hand. "Was that before or after he tried to kill a group of children?"
She never took her eyes off his face as she took a pull from his flask. His eyes glinted dangerously, and his jaw rolled. When she passed it back to him, he snatched it from her hand roughly, "I'm sharing thirty-year-old scotch with you, and you're being rude."
His face was red, and she couldn't tell if it was from the drink or his anger at her comment. His eyes didn't look angry though, they looked..wounded? She turned her face away, looking instead across the room toward the door. She would not feel sorry for him.
They sat in silence for a moment, neither wanting to be the first to break it. In spite of the pang of regret in her chest, she reminded herself that she hadn't said anything that wasn't true. And he deserved it after the way he'd treated her. A week of pretending that they were, if not friends, at least equals, only to then pull the rug from beneath her, reminding her once again of her place far below him.
"I know you don't believe me, Hermione, but I really didn't tell Pansy." Startled by his use of her first name, she turned to face him, expecting him to be staring at her with the same intensity that he had just used to speak, but instead, he had his head resting on the armrest behind him, looking up at the ceiling. "I wouldn't do that."
She knew exactly what it felt like to get something off your chest, so she didn't speak.
"I know everyone here, hell everyone in the world for that matter, thinks I'm this awful person, and they aren't wrong, but," he stopped and lifted his head to look at her, "I wouldn't do that to you."
Her first instinct was to laugh. I wouldn't do that to you. Hadn't he done that and worse? Hadn't he hurt her a thousand times over in the past? But instead of going back over every hateful comment, every sneer, she saw the way he looked at her then. His eyes held that same expression as before, as if saying this hurt him in some way. Rather than remembering all that he'd done to her, she thought of the way he'd crumbled beneath the Cruciatus in Luna's memories and the look of terror on his face when Voldemort ordered Rabastan to kill Astoria. She hated herself in that moment for feeling anything less than anger toward him, but she felt compassion, something she hadn't felt in far too long.
Suddenly her mouth felt as dry as parchment, so she swallowed and turned her face away from the sadness in his eyes. She realized they were treading dangerous ground, coming close to discussing things that neither of them would be talking about if they hadn't been passing a flask back and forth between them. Clearly, he was far more intoxicated than she was, but she still felt the burn in her chest and the way the room hazed slightly around the edges.
"It has nothing really to do with what I thought of you. It was more how I knew you thought of me," she said, cursing herself for trying to rid him of some of the blame.
She felt him shift on the couch, but when she didn't turn to face him, he tapped her leg with the corner of one shoe. She already knew she was blushing, simply from trying to pretend she was unbothered by their close proximity and her being so unclothed. But now, having revealed that she knew exactly how he felt about her, she had pulled the blanket away to expose something they both knew was there all along, but she couldn't help the way her eyes shifted downward when she turned to look at him. She hated the fact that it still made her feel inferior to think that other people thought of her as such. After almost a decade of constant reminders of where she stood in this world, never fitting in with Muggles and never truly on the same plane as "real" witches and wizards, some would think that eventually the shame and humiliation of that would erode over time, but she felt the same sting every single time.
"And how is that exactly?" he asked. He seemed intent now, no longer lounging and indifferent. He was sitting up straight, waiting on her to answer, and all of a sudden, she felt ridiculous. She surely didn't want him to see that these same insecurities weighed on her mind after all these years.
She shrugged, trying to act as if his opinion was of no importance whatsoever. "It doesn't matter." He continued to watch her, waiting for her to speak, his brows furrowed and his lips slightly parted.
He genuinely looked confused, but how could that be? Hadn't he reminded her often enough where she stood in the world? She gave him a look of disbelief. "Oh, come on, Malfoy. Tell me my status wasn't the reason for that whole," she gave an exaggerated impression of his drawl, lifting one eyebrow and attempting his infuriating smirk, "'I'm not here to make friends' speech."
The look on his face told her that she'd been correct. The color drained from his face entirely, leaving behind a stark-white look of realization. He closed his mouth and wiped all emotion from his face before turning his gaze out the window behind their couch.
"That's what I thought," she said, twisting to the side to stand. The moment one leg hit the floor, she felt his hand wrap around her calf.
"Stop doing that!"
"Doing what?" she asked, with just as much ferocity. Her skin prickled beneath his palm, goose bumps breaking out across her leg as his eyes roamed across her bare skin. When her eyes flitted toward his hand, his eyes followed. As if just realizing what he'd done, he pulled his hand away quickly, resting it on the back of the couch instead, and turned his face toward the door.
"Running away in the middle of a conversation."
She scoffed but didn't drop her other leg onto the floor. She sat there watching him, one foot on the floor, the other still touching the side of his thigh. "Well isn't that the pot calling the cauldron black?"
He rolled his eyes, but reached across the couch, to hand her his flask again.
She took another drink, relishing the burn as it hit her throat, passed it back to him and said, "For someone who so adamantly doesn't want friends, you spend a lot of time wanting to speak to me."
He busied himself with a drink rather than answering, but she was patient. She met his gaze, refusing to look away, to show him that she expected some kind of response.
He looked at his lap, unwilling to look at her while he spoke. "You were right."
Her stomach sank like a knut in a wishing fountain. She already knew how he and so many others looked at her but hearing the confirmation straight out of his mouth made it even worse somehow. She honestly didn't think he'd admit it, not out of any type of chivalry but for the sake of his parole and fear that she'd tell someone that his beliefs hadn't changed. One small part of her, a part she'd never reveal to anyone else, hoped that she'd been wrong.
She felt tears sting her eyes, but she turned away, hoping he hadn't noticed. Thankfully, he didn't look up until she turned her face away. Even without being able to look into her eyes, he must've realized she was hurt, and surprisingly seemed bothered by it.
"Not about that," he stammered. "I didn't – I don't –" He exhaled loudly, obviously flustered by whatever it was he was trying to say. She had turned back to face him now, confused by his words.
"I don't think about you that way. Your status, like you said." His cheeks were red, and he was fiddling with a tassel hanging off the edge of the blanket on the back of the couch. She felt like her lungs were being compressed or the oxygen was being pulled from the room.
"A year in Azkaban really gave me time to see all the holes in that logic." He dropped the edge of the blanket and ran his hands through his hair, tilting his head back onto the arm rest again. "That's not true either. I haven't thought of you like that for a long time."
Realizing her mouth was hanging open, she closed it and blinked a few times. She didn't miss the fact that he said he didn't think of her like that. Not Muggle-borns but her specifically. Did he mean it that way, or was he just drunk?
They sat in silence for a moment, his words hanging in the air, before he said, "I meant you were right about me pushing people away. I actually enjoy talking to you when you aren't acting all swotty." He smirked at her frown.
She pulled her other leg back up onto the couch, enjoying the way his calf pressed against her thigh as she scooted her hips away from the edge. "And you aren't half bad when you aren't acting like the world revolves around you." His shoulders bobbed once, and he made a sound as if the world really did revolve around him, she just hadn't noticed yet.
"Why?"
"Well, I'm a Malfoy. I've been told since I was born that the world does in fact revolve –"
"I meant 'why do you push people away,' idiot," she interrupted. "I'm fully aware of how overly inflated your head is."
She expected some retort from him or that he'd clam up, but maybe the whisky had erased his normal attempts at self-preservation above all else. He swallowed once and said, "I'm not really the type of person that people care about. Not genuinely anyway. The people I've always had surrounding me were there because of what I had to offer them. I don't really have much to offer these days."
"And do I seem like the type of person who would want something from you in exchange for my company?" That whole idea was ridiculous. "That isn't exactly how friendship works." But even as the words left her mouth, she was reminded of her own friends. Hadn't she always felt unworthy, like she had to have something to give in order for Harry and Ron to stay around her? She'd done their homework at times, went above and beyond to contribute to their group in any and every way, losing sleep and forsaking her own fears and worries at times, because if she didn't prove to them that she was worthy of their love, they'd surely realize that she needed them far more than they ever needed her.
"Malfoys don't really have friends. We have alliances, and it was pretty shocking that you'd want anything to do with me, to be honest." He paused to hand his flask back to her, and as she took a drink, he continued, "I mean, why would you? Why would anyone, really, but you specifically. You have more cause than anyone to hate me."
There was no emotion behind the words; he said them like he was reciting facts, like the obviousness of this statement was apparent. But she couldn't disagree with him. She really did have more cause than anyone to hate him.
He stared at her, the light of the moon reflecting off the silver in his eyes, waiting for her to contradict him the same way she had waited for his response earlier.
"I don't hate you, Draco." She sighed the words, hating that she didn't hate him, but it was true. She had every reason to despise him for his past and the way he'd treated her, but she just didn't have it in her. Perhaps she was just too tired to hate anyone anymore, or maybe -
"Why not?" he asked, in disbelief, as if her inability to hate him for his crimes was the most unreasonable thing he'd ever heard.
She laughed, shocking herself and him both. "I don't know." It came out a bit more watery than she'd like, as she realized that she was tearing up again. Reining her emotions back in, she said, "Maybe it just seems ridiculous to be angry with you in comparison to everything else that's happened. I'd be lying if I said I didn't still feel it sometimes, but I don't hate you for it. Until a few days ago, I didn't really see you as the same person really. Who you are now and who you were then are two very different people in my mind."
He scoffed, turning his head away. Before she could question why he didn't believe her, he said, "I wish I could think of myself as a different person so easily. I look at you and just remember all the bad things I've done, every bad thing I've said." He brought his face back toward hers, and she was surprised to see the shadow of overwhelming regret darken his features.
He paused, taking another drink, and dropped his eyes, now heavy-lidded and shaded with alcohol, back to hers. "It's hard to look at you," – he lifted a hand, motioning toward her sloppily – , "being all perfect, and not be reminded of how different we are."
He didn't seem to realize what he'd just said, and he didn't notice her own astonishment. Did he just call her perfect? Surely, he meant her image, the way other people saw her, not as he himself saw her, right?
He put the lid on his flask and tossed it toward her with a laugh. "I definitely don't need any more of that. I sound like you…rambling."
She laughed with him, unscrewing the lid and taking a drink. It still felt just as heavy as before. "How much is in this?"
"It's charmed. It'll never run out as long as there's more in my room."
"That's dangerous," she said, shaking her head, feeling the room spin slightly as she did. "You drink a lot." She didn't mean to say it, surely she drank more than she should as well, but alcohol took away what little filter she had.
He tilted his head to the side, sloppily, clearly imitating her. "What was it you said earlier about the pot and the cauldron?"
She rolled her eyes. "I'm not the one who brought a bewitched flask to a treatment center with me."
"It's the only way I can sleep," he said, surprising her with his honesty.
She nodded solemnly, understanding all too well the need to do whatever it took to sleep. "You too, huh?" she asked, shifting down slightly, so that she could rest her head on the arm rest.
"Spoils of war," he murmured, his eyelids drooping closed. She transfigured two couch cushions into pillows and tossed one toward him. He groaned as it landed on his face. He turned to the side, tucking the pillow behind his head in the process.
She chuckled and wondered how much of this conversation he'd remember in the morning. She knew she should get up and go back to her room, but she was honestly afraid she'd meet someone on the way and there's no way she could hide the amount of alcohol she'd drank.
I'll just stay until I've sobered up a bit.
The morning sun woke her, and her first thought was that she'd forgotten to close her blinds the night before. As her eyelids fluttered open, she was immediately disoriented to see not her four-poster and the familiarity of her dresser and desk across from her but the back of a couch directly in front of her face.
She blinked a few times as the previous night's events came swirling into view. Lots of alcohol and … Draco! She lifted her head slightly, eyes widening at the sight of her legs intertwined around his. His head was underneath his pillow, and he had one hand on her ankle where it rested across his thigh. At some point, he'd kicked his shoes off, and she had somehow managed to lay on top of one of his feet, while his other was behind her back, hanging off the edge of the couch.
Her heart began to race as she tried to think of a way to get out of this position without waking him. His legs were effectively trapping her into place, and even if she could manage to sit up without jostling him too much, he still had his hand wrapped around her ankle.
She felt the beginning of a hangover as a headache lodged itself behind her eyelids, thumping along with the beat of her heart. She tried to move as slowly as possible, but the moment she started to pull her ankle from beneath his hand, she felt his grip close tenderly around her. She blinked a few times in astonishment, cursing herself for not just walking back to her room last night – she had a wand! She could have just disillusioned herself – as he shifted slightly, bringing his leg back up onto the couch behind her and snuggling in closer, pulling on her ankle until he had one arm wrapped around her leg.
What the hell is he doing? She had a moment to consider whether or not she should just yell that out before her heart leapt into her throat from the feel of his hand as it ran down her leg and rested on her thigh. He was moving his fingers gracefully over her skin, tracing circles across her leg with his thumb, somehow firmly and delicately at the same time, and causing her skin to tingle. She was so shocked that it took her a few seconds before she stammered out, "D… Draco… wake up."
His hand froze and she felt his chest stop mid-breath against her foot. He picked his hand up and slowly lifted the pillow off his face, almost as if he were afraid of what he'd find.
His eyes were as wide as hers as they took in one another. If the look on his face was any indication, clearly, she wasn't the only one who had forgotten where she was. Whose leg did he think he was rubbing? They stared at one another, both sets of eyes as wide as saucers, neither of them breathing. His eyes ran the length of her leg and paused briefly when they reached the hem of her shorts, and her breath hitched as she realized he could probably see her knickers from this angle.
After what could have been two seconds or two minutes, he pulled his hand away quickly. Despite the situation, she felt her face break into a grin at the look on his face. The whole situation was as hilarious as it was shocking, and she couldn't hold back the nervous giggle that poured out of her mouth. As soon as she started laughing, he blinked at her as if she were crazy.
"Your hair!" she managed to choke out. His platinum locks, always so intricately and perfectly placed, were standing on end in all directions, so disheveled that it looked like – "You look like Harry!"
The frown that had been on his face as soon as she started talking dropped, replaced now by a look of horror, as he jumped up from the couch, pushing her leg away from him in the process.
"You're a good one to talk," he said, as he ran his fingers through his hair, trying in vain to smooth it down into its normal place of imperfect perfection. "Your hair looks like something's living in it."
That just made her laugh more as she flipped her legs off the couch, returning the cushions back to their normal state. "My hair always looks like something's living in it."
He looked down at his shoes, laying haphazardly on the floor beside her own, as if he had just noticed he wasn't wearing any. He snatched them up quickly and slid them on, rushing to tie them.
When her giggles died down, she checked her watch, and saw that they still had twenty minutes before breakfast started, so they'd possibly have time to make it to their room before anyone noticed.
She heard him clear his throat, so she turned to face him, but his eyes were focused intently on the floor. His cheeks were a deep crimson, and the blush reached all the way down his neck. "Sorry, about –" he didn't turn to look at her. He only motioned vaguely in her direction – "that." Before she could respond, he stood and walked quickly to the door, likely as uncomfortable as she was in the morning's strange course of events.