Shifted

Boiling

Living with Malfoy— it wasn't good, but, admittedly, she'd had more unpleasant roommates.

Malfoy wasn't like Ron or Harry. She was constantly cleaning up after them, or walking in on them with their— manhood showing.

Malfoy cleaned his dishes as soon as he was done eating. He changed in the bathroom after he was done showering and put his dirty clothes into the hamper, where they belonged. He even, mercifully, spent most of his time outside, so Hermione wasn't confined to the bedroom in her efforts to ignore him.

They didn't have a ton of space in between the cabin and the wards, but it was large enough, about a mile in circumference. Enough that Hermione was able to do laps around it when the frustration got to be too much.

And there was a lot to be frustrated about. Mafloy might be house trained, but he was still rude. He never seemed to shut up. They'd gotten into their fair share of ridiculous fights. There was one involving which ways the cups should sit in the cupboard. (Hermione was adamant that the rim should face down, and Malfoy had called her a barbarian. The next day, she went to grab a glass and all of their cups were rim up. It had been a battle ever since.)

She also found it extremely annoying that he never seemed to sleep.

He hadn't said a thing when he was sequestered to the couch, and despite Hermione sleeping in short intervals and leaving the confines of her room often, she'd never caught him with his eyes closed. It was as fascinating as it was irritating.

But more than that, the closer it got to the full moon, the less in control she was. This was new to her. It was possibly because she'd been too focused to notice that she was constantly on edge. Now, she had nothing to do but acknowledge it. Fester in it.

They'd been at the cabin for nearly two weeks and Hermione wasn't sure how much more she could handle. The next full moon was still a ways away— about two weeks— but everyday that drew it closer she could feel her control slipping away. She longed for her haze— for the numbness that would accompany it. The need to feel something other than fury and acute loneliness was all consuming.

She was outside, stretching after finishing her run around the wards. She stood with her back facing the cabin and legs spread out into a V as she reached her fingers towards the ground. She let her head fall down, eyes closed, enjoying the pull of her sore muscles and relishing in finally finding some peace.

Behind her, a wooden board creaked. Her eyes snapped open. She stood up ramrod straight and turned, wand in her hand.

Malfoy was there, on the top step of the porch, leaning against the pole with his arms crossed over his chest.

She opened her mouth, an insult she hadn't thought through poised on her tongue— when she noticed.

His face was serious, a look of concentration in his eyes. He didn't seem to notice that she'd gotten up, that she was glaring with killing intent.

That's when she felt it for the very first time.

A pull.

It was unmistakable.

The urge to let her feet carry her over to Malfoy was overwhelming. She dug her heels into the ground to fight it, even as her stomach twisted painfully against the sharp pang of loneliness.

She wasn't sure if he was feeling it too— she couldn't tell if he was feeling anything at all. The clouded look in his eyes reminded her of his haze.

"Malfoy?" she called out.

From her distance, she could see his brow furrow as he pushed off against the pole. She couldn't read him, couldn't tell what was going through his head at that moment. The connection snapped almost immediately. Malfoy didn't even try to make an excuse as he rushed inside and slammed the door behind him.