Touchstone || Dramione

Chapter VI: Glare

'You might start over from time to time, but it's never in the same spot. Don't get discouraged, Hermione.' Her mother always understood the chaos in her mind. An ice-pick of pain spreads through her heart. Her mother understood a lot of things.

The town of Haven is nestled beyond the outskirts of the most wooded areas of the swamp lands. The Laveau property lays hidden within those woods, not far from an abandoned settlement likely established during the first French explorations. Most have been taken back by the hungry waters, but there are still a few termite infested shacks left. A few leaning tombstones and what looks like a crumbling mausoleum, as well.

Hermione sits on one of the patio sofas out on the balcony, 'The Crimson Gospels' volume heavy in her lap, closed and unread, Dumbledore's torn note hidden in its pages. She isn't sure how long she's been sitting out here, looking through the trees at those old hovels, but the heat is now smothering her. Sweat drips down her forehead and she wipes angrily at her frazzled hair. She should have braided it, or pulled it up into a bun, maybe. Her fingers comb the sticky tendrils off the back of her neck.

"If it wasn't a sweltering sauna out here, maybe I could enjoy the view." She mumbles, pulling at her tank top, her body begging for a cool breeze. She thanked Merlin for Andromeda's gesture of kindness. She never dons this style of clothing, but in weather like this, Hermione Granger herself can't say no.

She casts another cooling charm, but it does little. Taking a dip in a nice cold lake would be pure heaven. Her body shivers at the thought and she considers asking Andromeda if there's a quiet place to swim that isn't teeming with over-sized reptiles and stagnant with mossy mud. How long has it been since she's worn a bathing suit? She taps her thumb on the spine of the book irritably.

The weather could at least grant cloud cover today like it has been since the hurricane made landfall last week. No. Today has to be hot, full of mosquitoes and miserably sticky. Too bad there isn't a charm to deter the pesky little buggers. She'll have to ask Andromeda for some spray-on repellent, but she keeps forgetting. They seem to like Malfoy's blood quite a lot. A dark part of her finds that more than a little ironic, though she quickly squashes it away.

Flood waters have turned the Laveau property into a tiny island in the middle of a vast dirty sea. Hermione was shocked to hear that most of the flowers and yard decorations have survived the onslaught. Trudging around the yard isn't something anyone fancies, least of all Nott. She hasn't seen him since yesterday afternoon, but he usually stirs clear of everyone so it's not entirely troubling. Andromeda had checked his room this morning, but he wasn't there. His bed didn't look like it'd been slept in, either.

He wouldn't run, seeing that he honestly has nowhere to run to, but the lack of his appearance is perplexing. After all, this is entirely her fault, isn't it? She's used to a lot of things in her life, name calling, ridicule for her intellect and facing down what she deems unethical, but never inadequacy. Never making catastrophically wrong decisions. Malfoy was a wrong decision, wasn't he? But she'd do it all again in a heartbeat. On impulse. With no reservations about putting Nott's head on the chopping block...

Sera vanished this morning, too, saying she wanted to take a walk around the woods. Hermione still wonders if she meant 'take a swim'. Andromeda only warned her to stay within the wards. The woman is much more concerned about Nott's activities, and rightfully so, but he's practically a shadow, gone by the time they turn around. He's not spoken to anyone and Sera has yet to say one word about him. Hermione wants to ask how their co-ownership of the loo is being handled. Hers and Malfoy's has been nothing short of dismally awkward.

Two days ago, she'd found him naked and shuddering under the shower head, the water running cold and his dull grey eyes absent. She deliberately kept her gaze on his face as she reached out to tap the shower door. He'd rebounded so abruptly that he slammed his shoulder into the wall. By the end of it, he was seated on her bed, lips pursed, a towel slung over his lap and a soothing layer of Pomfrey's ointment glossing his skin to reduce the bruising. He might have glared at her when she'd rummaged in her rucksack to get the ointment, but she couldn't be sure. She'd thought she felt his eyes, but guilt can conjure many tricks of the mind.