It's a fickle thing.
It's in her hair one moment, and over her skin the next.
It's truly like sunlight, Draco muses, as he watches it move over her. It adds to the blooming in her cheeks, in the perpetual glow in her smile.
It's such a fickle thing, so it is cunning, too.
It's in her cutting remarks one minute and in her laughter the very next. It's uncontrollable, Draco thinks. Unseen in the way it affects him, but always there, like the blood in his veins.
"It's everywhere," he grunts.
She contemplates him like he's a messenger owl that has lost its way.
"What is?" Hermione asks, ever curious.
"This fickle thing," he answers.
She hums, and Draco sees the gears turn in her head. It's all over her now, like her own secret halo. One only he can see.
"I don't think it's everywhere just because it's fickle," she finally says.
She smiles at him in jest, like she's oblivious, like she understands.
"I think you find it everywhere because it's in you."