Hermione Granger is scared. The nightmares are frequent and sleep is rare. Her relationship with Ron is not what she thought it was. Stuck in a circle of despair she is trying hard to regain the famed Gryffindor courage while maintaining appearance...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
~ Hermione Granger
They could see out into the Dark forest from where they sat. And dusk was crumbling around them, violet hues rippling into the bluish-black night. Hermione Granger had finally stopped shaking. And Draco Malfoy was the reason. His brush had sent an electric wave through her body that joined the waves of pain her body always seemed to carry which changed and morphed into an unusual pleasure-pain combination that distracted her enough to calm her down.
As soon as the sensation passed through her, she craved it more and chased it for she wanted to be selfish just this once. Just to help herself, pray her torment cease. In the dark was when mistakes could be easily forgiven, sins committed and painted over. She would confront herself later on dallying so readily with the enemy, besides her mind argued how different it could be as Ronald was her body's enemy anyway.
In an effort that proved successful, she launched into whispered speech to keep the tense, light balance between them.
"I'm finding the Arithmancy homework hard to do".
She grimaced. Of all the things she could have said, her mind had surged into its default Hermione Granger mode, school and homework safety net.
"Really Mudblood? Homework is what you decide to talk about? Of all the Salazar's twisted balls that have occurred this past week, that's what you choose to address?" he smirked tauntingly.
She lapsed into silence again. Why was she doing this?
Exasperated she sighed in fear, "I'm trying Malfoy".
That split his smirk as she watched his face turn stoic. Tilting his head, Malfoy glanced at her wrists. Breathing slowly, his raspy voice building a foreign excitement in her belly, he mouthed,"ran out of the Murtlap I assume?"
She asserted, a streak of comfort surging in her that he had acknowledged that he had sent it, it hadn't been a figment of her imagination, he was conscious of his help, of her wounds. They were threading dangerous territory now, and both seemed aware of this, for her, she risked her facade crumbling and her torment being exposed by her enemy. For him, being confronted by the Mudblood about his lapse of judgment on the fateful day his drunken conscience had decided to extend a helping hand. It made the whole situation seem more real, adding fuel to the twinges of pleasure both were adamant about confusing with pain.
"Thank you." She said it and it felt alright.
Maybe he understood that she couldn't talk about what happened to her. But more likely she reasoned, he did not care. How could he? It irked her, puzzling that the natural query of how she suffered those injuries hadn't fallen past his rasp. She should be pleased. It was easier this way but it hurt nevertheless, she was only human after all and after finally being discovered it annoyed her that she couldn't shed her torment, unburden herself onto him.
