I Learned Your Pulse

"Good poetry, great poetry."

Draco's hands positioned themselves to keep her from falling and giving herself a concussion; one placed itself under her head, the other on her lower back. He slowly and carefully, so as not to wake her, lifted her into his arms as if she was a doll. Her knees over on arm, her back on the other, and her head folded itself inward and rested on his chest like a child's, her bushy hair warm through his shirt. Her whole body was warm, actually - something he never failed to notice anymore. Always sitting with her competitors, she was, always talking with the Professor, she was, always hanging around with Krum, and she was always warm. But he was holding her as carefully as he could, because she obviously really needed the sleep, and because he didn't want her to wake and force him to put her down.

It seems as if every time I'm around her, she's asleep, he thought, wondering idly if Weaslette would appear this time and get all defensive. He began to carry her toward the common room, the silence of the hallway ringing in his ears.

He pitied the girl in his arms. She was obviously exhausted, and was on uncomfortable terms with Potter and Weasley, and she never wanted to be in this tournament, but she was trying her hardest to make the best of it. Unfortunately, she had been trying too hard. And now she had to be carried by the boy who'd teased her and made fun of her, who had insulted her and degraded her, belittled her for years on end. But she looked so peaceful, and he wondered what her dreams were of, and if they were good ones this time.

Footsteps could be heard suddenly, and they weren't his.

The Kensworth kid appeared. "What happened to her?" he demanded, upon seeing who was carrying her.

"Fainted from exhaustion," he answered simply, ignoring the boy and stepping around him, continuing on to the common room.

Kensowrth didn't press him for a reply, and in fact, made no sound but footsteps. Draco assumed he was following him, and looked behind him to tell him to bugger off, but he saw that he had turned tail and was walking in the opposite direction in an obvious hurry. Confused, Draco turned back and continued carrying the bushy-haired brunette toward the common room.

He thought about the common room. He realized that he'd really only entered whenever he was distraught and needed solitude (though it never lasted very long) and that it had never given him another riddle. He wondered if you answered it once it was enough, and you didn't have to every time. But no, Longbottom always had to answer the riddles, and more often than not, Lovegood would have to help him out. What was it, then?

There. He'd reached it. Plain and inviting, he tried to enter.

A piece of paper floated down from nothing above his head and landed on Hermione's instead, giving him a full view of the words without having to pick it up.

I can be slow

or over in a flash.

I cannot be used lightly,

nor put in a flask.

Put in a flask? What couldn't you put in a flask that you wouldn't use lightly? He wasn't sure, but 'slow' and 'over in a flahs' both fit certain types of potions. 'Cannot be used lightly'... That fit potion, too.

"A potion?" he asked nothing.

The words on the page transformed. Incorrect, try again.

He thought some more, and then shuddered while saying, "Torture?"

The doors opened.

"Kind of morbid," he muttered, but then fell silent, as Hermione had shifted so her cheek, not her hair, was pressed against the part of his chest  that overed his heart.