authorsnote:
me: its slow burn
I don't lie
enjoy, do review
songrecs: in the end - tomme proffit/fleurie
This time, as they met, neither one of them hesitated.
It was so different from the first morning, of shaking on the spot, miles away, agony running through every inch of her but a refusal to step forward to meet him, of him finally clasping his hand with hers, of the pain and shame of needing none another.
This time, it was different.
As soon as she made it to the greenhouse, wrenching the door open, he was already there, and hurrying towards her, his wolf hearing having him on his feet before she could approach.
There was little pain this time, an itch in the neck, the tiny hint of a headache coming closer, but clearly a night of being wrapped in one another's arms had chased away the pain of the day … that made her nervous, was this was what was required? Sleeping together in a bed to get through each day?
What was worse was the secret thrill that ran through her, that, that was what was required, for she knew deep down, she wanted it to be.
Still, even the itch of pain that was starting vanished the second Malfoy took her hands, threading his fingers through hers. Was he worse effected? She wasn't sure, he looked better than he had in weeks, the bruise like circles under his eyes had faded to shadows, he looked his usual alabaster pale but like marble, not sickly. He looked as always incredibly handsome, but he looked healthier, not so tortured, and she knows she didn't imagine the sigh of contentment he let slip as his hands took hers.
This was trouble, and yet she leaned into it, clutching his hands as he did hers.
For a moment they were quiet, just quiet as they clutched at one another, tipped their heads forward to meet, resting against one another, breathing in the relief that came with being in one another's presence.
After all, she had been near pain free today, thanks to their night together, and yet, it wasn't quite the same; 'pain free', as being in Malfoy's presence, where everything just eased.
This wasn't them, they weren't touchy feely, they didn't even like one another! And yet neither one of them moved.
Things had been changing for them both for a while, ever since she had near fainted, ever since they had reached some kind of civility, studying together, reading together, it had made things easier, nicer, less cruelty, easier.
And yet, nothing had changed them quite as much as the night before had.
Waking up wrapped in one another's arms, cuddled together, her nose skimming Malfoy's neck at one point. Heat and contentment and happiness, she near gasped then at the thought … happiness?
And yet, she realised, as she'd woken that morning she had been happy, so happy, being content was a kind of happiness wasn't it? She remembered the smile lingering on her cheeks as she'd wandered around the castle.
Happiness and Malfoy? It seemed impossible.
But then, didn't everything that had happened to her in the past month seem impossible?
Look at them right now, holding hands, foreheads resting against one another, both only content when this close.
Was it happiness or madness?
She wasn't sure if she could distinguish between the two.
They stayed that way for several minutes, and it was odd that there was no awkwardness, nothing uncomfortable, it just felt easy, both breathing in the ease that came with being close to one another. When had it become this?
"This isn't sustainable" She began, hating to break the moment, but it was true, they couldn't go on like this.
How could they live when they needed each other so?
"I know" He whispered, breathing, talking, all of it giving her life, she couldn't give it up.
There was no option just to stop, they both knew that.
"What do we do?" She asked, neither of them had moved, clinging to one another, like a life raft at sea, and that was what they were to each other now.
It could be easy to forget, feeling as good as they did now, but she remembered the pain, the agony, and couldn't stand the thought of going back to it.
There was more to it than that, but she wasn't ready to face that yet.
Neither of them were.
"I don't know" It was true, it was honest, and Hermione was always horrified when Malfoy was unabashedly honest with her, it wasn't him.
'I don't know'
'I don't know'
That night they didn't even try to pretend.
They couldn't go back to the Manor, with Lucius and Narcissa back early, and so they hid themselves in the actual library, in the restricted section (Malfoy had a standing pass from Professor Snape), right at the back of the mustiest tomes, a privacy spell up for good measure.
They pulled out a few books, there were no specific werewolf books in the restricted section (and that seemed suspicious), but there were several 'dark creature' ones in general, and they stacked those up in their hidden spot, almost barricading themselves in, and got to work.
Unsurprisingly it was more of the same.
More of the vague mentions of a soul-bond, more of the references to it with no follow-up, several notations about it being too difficult to study, lots of notes about speculating on the condition (with no new information), and references to the texts they'd read at Malfoy Manor.
Nothing, nothing more of use, and they were running out of sources.
Neither of them said so, they knew it, knew the information well was running dry and they still knew so little, almost nothing. Another dead-end.
And yet, neither of them left, even as it became clear there would be no more information for them here, neither of them even suggested leaving, or moving on, neither of them wanted to.
Still, they re-read the same books, and did so close to one another, closer than before. Hermione found an excuse to brush her arm against Malfoy's, Malfoy nudged her with his elbow when he reached for another volume, Hermione shuffled and tapped her knee with his, Malfoy yawned and as he covered his mouth and bumped her shoulder.
It was almost like a dance, a dance to have tiny bits of contact, contact they needed.
Contact they were starting to crave.
A glance of her arm next to his chest, a brush of his fingertips on her shoulder, as they stand a bump of knees, a smile.
It wasn't sustainable, it wasn't right, Hermione still didn't like him (at least as she'd keep telling herself), but this was what she needed, to chase away the pain, to chase away the unhappiness.
She needed Malfoy.
And that was where they stayed for the rest of the evening, ending it shoulder to shoulder, reading from the same book, knees touching, Hermione's ankle resting atop of his. Simple, small touches.
And yet for them it made all of the difference, in more ways than one.
More ways than one that they both gave into, gave into and practically rolled in it, in needing one another.
Fools.
And it continued like that for the next week.
In lessons they'd continue to ignore one another, act as though they still hated each other, but he didn't mock her anymore, didn't sneer as she raised a hand, and she didn't glare across at him, tried to stop Harry being provoked.
They couldn't fake that, Malfoy couldn't bear to pretend to hate her, not with what he truly felt, couldn't stand the thought of lashing out at her. Hermione felt oddly dirty as the Gryffindors shit-talked the Slytherins and had to excuse herself, unable to stand talking bad about Malfoy.
She kept quiet in Professor Snape's lessons, lest he say something to set Malfoy off.
It was a balancing act, this dance around one another, pretending in public, faking what their relationship had become, acting indifferent, it was even difficult in some regards; when she sat two behind him in Charms it was easy to imagine reaching forward, when his Potions bench was next to hers he could smell her over the fumes of the cauldrons and wanted to lean in, when she passed him in the corridor she had to force herself to keep walking, when he saw her in the Great Hall he had to stop himself from going over.
Craved, that was the word, and as the days went by it was the word at the forefront of her mind, the feeling itching at her fingertips whenever she saw him.
The evenings thankfully made up for it.
It was easy for her to steal away, the boys were so used to her living in the library her excuse of 'It is NEWT year, I'm not slacking now' was readily accepted, and no one dared ask Malfoy where he was skulking off to (well Theo and Blaise tried, and just mocked his withering looks in response, 'I know you two can't read but I like to keep up'), that their library meets up on a nightly basis were fairly easy to cover.
They always picked the bit in the back, in the Restricted Section, hidden among the obscure texts that left them unseen, dust motes swirling in the air, cracked leather chairs and heavy desks hiding them, piles of books as their fortress, a silencing spell or two.
They did their homework now, their reading, there was no point reading through the Hogwarts book selection on werewolfs or dark creatures, they'd exhausted that option, and they both knew by now that was not why they kept coming back.
No, instead they sat side by side, Malfoy sucking on a sugar quill as he completed a Potions essay, Hermione brow furrowed as she read a difficult Arithmancy text. They share textbooks with ease now, she annoyed at how slowly he reads, he mocking she can't be taking it all in as she speeds through the pages. She gives feedback on one of his essays, he tells her to fuck off, she acts outraged, and then he solves a Runes problem she was stuck on to prove a point, she massacres one of his essays with red corrections the next night as payback and he laughs.
And yet, it is all done almost teasingly, with laughter once or twice, and though at times they remember their dislike (or the dislike they are supposed to have, Malfoy knows its long-gone for him, Hermione's real feelings are deeper), and clam up, in truth that becomes less and less, there is just more and more of being at ease.
Hermione notes that Malfoy is really pretty when he laughs, Draco would call her nothing less than beautiful.
Then there are the touches.
It starts as it did the first night, a brush of the knee, a glance across the back, the bump of a hip as they stand up … then it becomes more, and more, and more.
On the Monday she twines her ankles with his, he doesn't protest, if anything adjusts his feet to make it easier for her.
On the Tuesday he rests an arm across the back of her chair and ends up twirling a piece of her hair around his finger over and over, she leans into his hand.
On Wednesday his hand is on her knee.
On the Thursday she ends the night with her head on his shoulder.
They don't talk about it, they can't. Hermione can't admit how she is drawn to him, how her body turns to him, how she leans in. Draco can't admit how much he needs her, how he wants to smell her, pull her close, even into his lap, how as she craves, he's feeling fucking feral.
Like a fucking halfbreed, and yet the words in his head lack bite, as instead the feeling of uncaring about his condition comes to play, not caring he's a wolf, as long as he gets her.
All buried deep, where he tries to keep them.
Tries.
Then on the Friday, lessons done for the week, weekend looming, they fall asleep together again.
Not through the night this time, but close enough.
It has been a long week, and though made easier, less pain as they meet each night, as they drink their fill to get them through the day (and one the end of the Thursday he does lean in and smell her hair, curse him, but he can't resist, as she on the Wednesday had brushed her nose against his neck as she'd near fallen asleep on his shoulder), the weekend looms, Hogsmeade, how will they get away?
There is no; if they should get away, only when and how, they can't give this up, not now.
Its part of them.
On the Friday she falls asleep, his arm around her shoulders, her head tucked into his chest, his head resting atop hers, where he joins her in slumber, and it is so easy, so easy to fall asleep together, so much more peaceful, they tumble easily.
They wake a few hours later, and it is dark out, stars dotting the sky, curfew long gone.
And yet, when she wakes, she does so again lazily, doesn't want to move, it isn't uncomfortable, even without a bed she feels completely relaxed, a little dizzy, that high again, and like the night at Malfoy Manor … there is a squirming as she brushes her nose to his neck again, as he drops a kiss to her head, as they snuggle together.
But then … but then, as they could have fallen back asleep, she turns her head, turns her head in her half sleepy state.
Their noses brush.
Noses brush, and she blinks, half asleep still, he is the same, half lost to luxuriating in her embrace, the wolf never sleeps so easy as when she is in his arms, noses brush, a zap runs through them both, like magic or something with the bond? And he glows brighter to her, a burned gold then, so bright it would hurt her eyes, should hurt them.
And yet, she just leans in, leans into that glow, to him, to them.
Leans in, and so does he, their lips brush, so incredibly delicate, a brush like a butterfly's wing, but it is there, a brush of the lips, together.
And then they jolt awake, eyes wide, springing apart even as their bodies beg to come back together.
They spring apart, stand even, she is shaking.
This time his eyes are gold, just like his glow.
But stranger, and those gold eyes of his widen hugely, for she glows now too, the same gold she'd described to him on the Wednesday.
Gold eyes, gold glow.
Somehow, they lean back in.
lets be real I warned you about the angst
I hope you enjoyed, soz for the cliffhanger, but not really soz
next chapter coming soon, do review