requirement | dramione

0.06

october 17, 1996

Over a month had passed since Hermione's forced duel with Malfoy. That meant that it had been a month and a half since Draco had looked at Hermione. A month and a half since Hermione had knocked him to the floor. A month and a half and one week since Draco had pressed their bodies together in the corridor.

She could feel him still– his chest against her back, his arm around her shoulders, tormenting her during her dreams. 

During the day's she consumed herself in her studies. She heaved her books from class to class and remembered to raise her hand high. She spent lunchtime with Harry and Ron, who made her laugh as they picked on one another. They made fun of each other and chastised Hermione for her constant studying. 

At dinner, Ron and Hermione often missed Harry. For at least a night each week, Harry was summoned to Dumbledore's for a private lesson. The next morning, the friends would sit in the courtyard grass and Harry would retell his nights to them. Those morning's in the courtyard were beginning to grow colder, Hermione had begun wearing the scarf that her mum knit for her and stopped wearing her uniform skirts. She knew, as she soaked in the sunlight, that she would miss mornings like these. On this morning, Hermione blinked as she watched Harry, who spoke with his hands and a somber tone. The dark haired boy had a far away look in his eyes, like some piece of him was beginning to understand that horrors which waited for them outside of Hogwarts.

It was always in the night– late and cold, when Hermione would think of the war, just beginning. Muggles, dying and disappearing. Her parents– what they were doing, if they were safe. Voldemort– where he was hiding, who he was hunting. Deatheaters. Draco Malfoy. If Draco Malfoy was a Deatheater. 

Always in the night, as she laid in her bed, that she pictured the blonde boy laying next to her.

His face would be pressed into the pillow next to her, skin so pale that he almost matched the light pink sheets. His silvery blue eyes held large, dark pupils as he looked at her as if he was absorbed by her presence. He'd reach out, with a touch as light as air, to brush against her warm cheek. Their breathing synched. Then, her hand would extend, sometimes looking to feel his fine skin or run her fingers through his silk hair. Just as she could imagine the feel of his cheek in her palm, he would vanish.

Hermione would roll to her other side, away from the ghost that she had conjured in her dreams. Malfoy was not a book, she knew, she would never be able to read him and know him. Even if that was possible, Malfoy would never allow it.

The next morning, Hermione woke to the sunlight pouring in through the dormitory's window. She rose, glancing at the untouched side of her small bed before she remade the sheets, tucking and flattening the covers to perfection.

"You two are up early," Hermione grinned sweetly, tired from restless sleep. The fire place had a soft glow that warmed the common room on the chilly October morning. Some third years sat on the couch, talking about Mythical Creatures and on the other side of the room, a group of younger students played wizard chess with worried expressions.

"Quidditch tryouts are tonight," Ron said proudly, his lips forming a grin. Hermione returned the grin, excited for Ron and Harry both.

"I'll come to watch, then?" She said, supportively. Harry nodded in response, rubbing the back of his neck. "Long night?" She asked, watching him.

"Yeah," Harry sighed, adjusting the textbook beneath his arm. Hermione glanced at his movement.

"You've got the Marauder's map?" Hermione quizzed, catching sight of the tattered parchment.