Blood Magic

A Message From The Dark

A week and a half had gone by, and Hermione had fallen into a deep, unbreakable haze. She got up each day, got dressed, and carried on through her classes without so much as a word to any of her friends. She managed to keep her panic attacks and fainting spells down on account of her nightmares being nonexistent.

Each night when Mione would slip into bed, the second her head would hit the pillow, she would anticipate a night terror coming on. However, ever since she tried confronting Draco, her nights had been filled with nothing but serenity. Of course, each dream she had... consisted of him.

The night before, Hermione had dreamt of Draco Malfoy holding her in his arms while sitting on the edge of the black lake behind Hogwarts. It wasn't the first time she had dreamt this sort of scenario, but it was starting to become her favorite pastime. Spending time with Malfoy brought her a certain peace that she wasn't able to find anywhere else. Not in her friend, not in books, and certainly not within herself.

Although the set-up of the dream appeared to be similar, Hermione felt a shift in their dynamic each time she found herself in his arms. Draco hardly spoke a word when she'd attempt to speak to him. She'd attempt to speak about the argument that had occurred, but Draco would merely brush it off and claim it to be no big deal.

Her chest would tighten and her nerves would spike, yet all the while he would keep her locked in place against his chest.

"Why not just let it be what it is, Granger? " he had asked her.

"Because... " she gasped. "...It's killing me. "

Draco snatched her closer, feeling his hands clamp tighter around like an iron vise. "Don't say that ," he rasped. "Please don't say that ."

The sadness that filled his voice made her wonder if this version of Malfoy was completely made up by her imagination. In her mind's eyes, he was so gentle- so caring and- dare she say- passionate? He held her with such devotion and looked at her with such adoration that there were times when Mione did not want to wake up. Why couldn't she stay asleep all day and spend her countless hours with him?

Why couldn't this version of Draco be real , she asked herself.

No matter, the bushy-haired Gryffindor settled for what she could get. Even if she knew it was all in her head.

Still, she carried on. And through each class she happened to share with Malfoy, Hermione kept her head facing forward and swallowed the pain in her chest.

If he was hell bent on ignoring her then she wasn't going to spare him a second glance.

It was Friday evening, dinner had long since passed, and Hermione remained in her corner of the library tucked away without a care. She buried up to her eyes in books, hoping to find the right solution as to how to help her parents. Still she kept coming up short.

She was tired and becoming more and more frustrated by the day. The only thing that seemed to be keeping her interest was slipping into bed and falling asleep- knowing that a certain Slytherin was always waiting for her.

God did she feel utterly pathetic. Hermione sank miserably back into her chair as a bitter, depressing feeling came over her. She couldn't bring herself to confront the real Draco, so she was eager to settle for the 'fake' one that her mind was apparently able to conjure up.

It should have startled her how perfect her mind was able to reproduce his image exactly as how he looked in-person. His features were sharp and sculpted, his hair just slightly wavy from not having any product in it. And those long, slender fingers that always found their way around her waist.