Haunted

7 | expect the unexpected

Draco pushed through the double doors of the library, beelining to the stacks in the back of the space where the three books he'd been reading the day before had been reshelved. The books in hand, he nonverbally casted a concealment charm onto their covers. To anyone but him, their titles would be glamoured. Memory Tricks turned into Magical Beasts and Wildlife, So You Want to Learn About Mind Magic? became The Complete Encyclopedia of Herbs, and Mental Spells for Beginners transformed to Eighteenth Century European History.

He lumbered over to his usual seat at the grand mahogany table and placed the books down, glancing up to the mezzanine instinctively. And as if he'd conjured her, there she was, sitting at the end of the couch with her eyes closed, her face so relaxed that he almost didn't recognize her. Granger didn't seem to feel his gaze traveling her features, not even moving a muscle. So he stood, staring up, frozen in time by the sight of her.

He was being ridiculous. If anyone came into the library and saw him like this, they'd think he was barking mad. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from her face. She was so peaceful, so still, so calm. Was she... asleep?

And just as the thought popped into his mind, he watched her body go slack and lean gently down, nuzzling her hair against the couch cushions. Her breathing was so deep that he could hear it even from his position at the bottom level. He was entranced, watching as her chest rose and fell, her eyelids twitching every so often.

What would she think if she woke up to find him staring at her? Observing her sleeping, like some kind of lunatic? Not in control of his own movements, though, he quietly departed from the table and climbed up the spiral staircase. He needed to see her up close. Not in a perverted way. He was just... curious. Wanted to know how she would look with all the tension drained from her expression in close proximity.

He moved slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements against the wrought iron stairs that would cause them to clang. After an agonizing minute of ascending the steps, he finally made it to the top, his heart hammering in his chest, his breath held. The view was serene. Granger sleeping peacefully on the sofa with a book discarded next to her, the windows behind her showing off a setting sun, birds floating in the nearby pond.

He had to smile at the sight of the Occlumency book beside her. He'd intentionally picked it up when he sensed her following him into the library, counting on her curiosity to make her read it when he commanded her to reshelve it. When he'd come back to the library yesterday to check if it was still there, he'd hoped its absence meant that it was in her possession. And now he could see that it was; his bets had paid off.

He stared, willing his memory to take a mental snapshot of this moment. He wanted to remember this, wanted to remember her like this. Her being in his presence without any of the hatred he was used to acknowledging on her face.

He knew that her current feelings towards him had been caused deliberately by his own actions. There was nobody to blame but himself, but selfishly, he wanted for her not to hate him. But if he meant for this amnestic version of Granger to converge as much as possible with the real version of her, she had to hate him. And if his personality wasn't enough to get the job done, he had to ensure it with other means.

And this is what forced him to snap, "Wake up," in a harsh voice at her. As her eyes fluttered open, he sharpened his gaze and set his jaw into the scowl that was his most frequently worn costume, especially in her vicinity. She blinked her hazels in confusion, scrambling upright as she came to. "You are aware that libraries are for reading and not sleeping, correct?" he questioned, injecting poison into his tone. "Or are your accommodations not to your liking? Shall I send the house elves to move your things into a larger room?" Merlin, how long was she planning to just stare at him wordlessly? He took just about as much pleasure in insulting her as she probably did in getting insulted. "Or perhaps you'd like silk sheets?"