Isolation

29. Weeks

.

Hermione flicked aside another page with a huff of irritation.

After some intense reading about the Deathly Hallows and a futile hunt for any documented hints about the whereabouts of the Elder Wand, she had returned to her obsessive research on the Horcruxes. After a few weeks, with nothing accomplished but bags under her eyes and chewed fingernails, she could feel the inevitable tension sneaking up on Harry, Ron and herself.

It was only natural, she knew. While they would always be the closest of friends, spending every second of every day with only metres for personal space and drowning in all this angst and apprehension was taxing, to say the least.

It didn't help that they were all trying to deal with their individual troubles.

Harry was constantly uneasy, blaming himself for every death and swinging between moods of melancholy and madness, while Ron constantly fretted about his family and struggled to realise his significance in their little group, leaving him frustrated and testy. She knew she was hardly helping his insecurities with her rejection of anything that could lean towards something beyond friendship, but the thought of anyone other than Draco murmuring against her lips made her feel queasy and unfaithful.

And therein lied her own problems; guilt and heartache.

Hermione scorned herself for lying to Harry and Ron, but she went to bed each night begging nameless gods that she wouldn't call out Draco's name in her sleep so she could keep the secret just that little bit longer.

But she could feel the confession eagerly waiting on the tip of her tongue.

Lying to them was simply too hard on her conscience.

"Hermione," Ron's voice stole her, and she met his eyes over her shoulder. "Do you want some food?"

"No, thank you," she said, knowing Harry was resting in the tent. "I think I may be onto something, so I ought to keep reading."

The inevitable disappointment marred his boyish features. "You could come and sit with me for a little while?"

"I'll come back up in a moment," she offered. "I won't be long."

"Okay," he sighed with a nod, pivoting on his feet to walk the short distance back to the tent, his shoulders hunched with defeat.

"Ron," she called, frowning when he didn't turn back to acknowledge her. "Happy Birthday."

.

.

A week later.

Draco had forgotten what if felt like to have sunrays kiss his face.

February had come and gone, and March had brought some Spring heat to warm the breeze. He was in his usual spot, sat on the stone steps and trying to ignore the irritating voices of Bletchley and Davis, who were having an unnecessarily loud lovers' tiff inside the house. He absently realised he'd been here just over a month now, residing in Andromeda's safe-house with the defected Slytherins. A month without Granger.

A fucking month.

The notion that time heals all wounds does not apply to the scars of young lovers separated too soon. Draco still felt as damaged as the day Granger had cried in the rain and sent him here.

He drifted between moments of blistering anger to a damning numbness that made his bones vibrate beneath his skin. He had tried to distance himself from the others, preferring to linger on the outside and only involve himself with their discussions when he decided the solitude was getting to him, but he seemed to find himself interacting with them more and more as the weeks rolled by.