Scattered (Book 1)

Stalemate (10)

Slytherpuff baby <3

What felt like an eon later, she shifted for the millionth time, stretching her toes up and down to flex her legs, and rubbing futilely at her shoulder. It was like trying to fight a wildfire with a blanket, her attempts to relieve one shoulder making the other ache worse, her leg stretches feeling as though she were going to cramp a muscle any minute. She lay still for a moment, listening to the sound of a page being turned, and opened her eyes, chancing a peek over at the potions master. He lay facing toward her, his hand on his jaw propping his head up from his elbow on the ground. His right hand was poised above the book, his long fingers gripping the corner of one page, ready to turn it over as his eyes darted back and forth, reading at the speed of light. His left leg was stretched out down his sleeping bag, and his right was propped up behind it, his foot flat on the floor, his knee pointing straight up. He looked more laid-back than ever, and Hermione closed her eyes to the image, not really wanting to see him as any more relatable. If he would just maintain the batlike facade, she would have an easier time forgetting his fantasies and wouldn't want to ask him for any favors, no matter how badly her legs hurt.

"It's difficult to concentrate when you're shuffling about like a nervous rat over there." his voice was whisper soft, his eyes glued to his book, never ceasing their task as he noted her continued movement.

"Sorry." Hermione choked out, turning her back on him, as if she could just ignore the memory of how he looked, his hair falling over his eyes, his white fingers sifting through pages delicately, his bare feet just as pale against his black pants, and charcoal sleeping bag. She frowned, and turned back over, looking at the substitute bed beneath him, noticing for the first time in the dim lighting that it, too, was devoid of color. She laughed suddenly, glancing from his black and grey side of the tent to her own light blue sleeping bag, assorted shades and patterns of sheets, blankets, and clothing. It was nearly comical.

"What's so humorous?" He finally looked up, searching the tent for the joke.

"Nothing." Hermione giggled, trying to bite back her laughter. He narrowed his eyes at her, sweeping the length of her own mattress, as if the secret were hidden under her sheets, or perhaps in her hands. Finally, he met her gaze, and she could see his confusion, irritation, and a dull contentment. He was comfortable sitting like that reading, his bare feet feeling freed after a day of hot dragonhide. Her laughter, irritating in its sudden and puzzling arrival was soft and girlish, the sound of her delight making his irritation with her lack of explanation ebb slightly. He picked out the feelings, colors, and a few words from her own head, and easily picked up on their meaning, glancing once down at his side of the tent, and then at hers. He gave a wry smile, and turned back to his book, cutting her off from whatever he thought in reply to her amusement.

"You may discover a more mature preference for your surroundings one day." He muttered, his voice too quiet to be a real taunt. Hermione fought her grinning cheeks, and lay on her back again, her mirth over their clashing aesthetics not quite enough to distract her from the aching muscles and bones. She rolled to her side, facing the tent wall, and pulled one knee toward her chest, hoping a different position would relieve the discomfort.

"For the love of-" She heard his book snap shut, and winced, her eyes trying to peer over her shoulder without turning her head. "Are you going to keep this up all night? If you keep me up again-"

"No, I'm fine now." Hermione lied, placing one arm under her pillow, and pretending to settle in, even as her calves began to beat with soreness once more. She heard him grumbling incoherently behind her, and heard the book reopen with a shuffling of pages, and his own crinkling of repositioning himself.