Isolation

22. Storm

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Days and hours rush by when the company makes you smile for no reason.

Time becomes irrelevant.

It was a good few days since Hermione's outburst in the shower, and things had been easy and almost peaceful in the dorm; just sleepy mornings and smooth afternoons basking in the calm. It was easy and effortless, with the minutes playing host to sarcastic arguments, which were more for amusement than spite, and comfortable silences, as though neither of them dared break the moment.

In those silences, Draco often found his stare lingering on her charming features; absently counting the spatter of freckles across her nose, or secretly grinning as she mumbled something incoherent to herself when she was engrossed in a book. He always caught himself before she noticed and scolded his behaviour, but his eyes would always find their way back to her again, and learn the details of her face.

But the unanswered questions about her parents tingled the back of his throat. She hadn't mentioned them again, and he had refrained from broaching the subject in an effort to keep the relaxed atmosphere, but he needed to know. His instincts warned him that it was something to do with the War, and after months of being stashed away in here and oblivious to the outside world, he was sick of being left in the dark.

Things were happening. Significant things. He could feel it scratching the pit of his stomach.

Hermione could feel it too; the eerie static flickering in the air that smelled like Dark Magic. The snow was beginning to get lighter, and the rain would come soon, washing away the beautiful, white landscape that she loved, and making way for bleak thunderstorms.

Godric curse her for being selfish and a little naïve, but she had shoved the War to the back of her skull for the past few days to savour these moments with Draco. She felt something deliriously close to contentment in his presence; taking every excuse to touch him and memorise how his skin felt beneath her fingertips. Whether it was searching for the blue specks in his smoky eyes, or studying the softening of his face before he fell asleep, she relished all of him and remembered how to smile.

Because she knew it was only temporary.

The calm between storms.

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It was his witch's squirming that slowly stirred Draco from his sleep, and he tightened the arm around her torso to keep her still. He had given up trying to keep a distance from her in bed; his body always sought her warmth anyway, and there was something instinctively pleasing about waking up in a tangle of limbs and body heat.

He could feel her hair tickling the tip of his nose and he pressed his face closer, but hesitated when he realised that something was off. Her normally silky curls felt coarse against his cheek, and when he slowly peeled open one eye, he was confronted by rusty fur instead of the chestnut mane he'd become accustomed to.

"What the..." he mumbled, rearing back to eye his lover's cat with distaste. He wrinkled his nose when the pet had the audacity to creep even closer to him, and he reached over to prod Hermione's arm. "Granger. Granger wake the hell up."

Groaning into her pillow, the sleepy brunette twisted around to face him and squinted against the first rays of morning. "What's wrong with you?"

"Your vile cat is pawing at me," he growled. "Get him off me."

"Don't call him vile," she said, stifling a chuckle when she realised Crookshanks was indeed trying to gain some affection from Draco. "He just likes you."

"Well, I don't like him," he grumbled, picking up the cat and dumping him into Hermione's lap. "Scruffy, bloody thing-

"Oh hush," Hermione tried not to laugh. "He doesn't like many people, so you should be flattered-