𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐋, a dramione short story

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐡.

"HERE YOU GO, Hermione," Draco said as he handed her a glass of water. Her eyes were empty of tears, red and puffy. She took the cup gratefully, sipping it with full awareness of her vulnerability.

"Thank you," she said softly. "I'm sorry you have to see me like this." The beverage seemed to tremble in her dainty hand.

Draco shook his head. "Don't apologize for feeling emotions. It was a hard task. You're brave, braver than I am." He meant it, too, because he knew that if she wasn't so courageous she would be a Ravenclaw.

"Are you sure I can stay here? If you need me to go I bet I can find a motel or something," Hermione said, scrambling to stand up.

Instinctively, Draco put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. It sent fireworks under her skin, making her tingle with unfamiliar excitement, but she pulled away with fear of the unknown. The contact sent an odd sensation through Draco's fingertips, one he could not recognize nor could he understand. "It's fine," he mumbled. "I'll show you to one of the guest rooms."

"Thank you," she replied as they walked up an orante, deep green staircase. "It really means a lot to me."

"It's no problem. I nearly went mad because of how lonely I've been. It's boring, too," Draco explained with a smile. "Here's your room," he said as he opened the door. "The bathroom's attached on the left."

She nodded and walked in. It wasn't anything special, just a raised full bed with green sheets and grey pillows and matching plushy carpet. "Thank you again," she said as she shut the door behind her.

Once settled atop the cushy bed, Hermione pondered over that moment, that mere second of explosions in her shoulder. It's just my hypersensitivity due to today's activities, she tried to tell herself. But it was futile, as she was certain there was something going on inside her and she was determined to figure out what. 'And if it's romantic?' was a question she couldn't get out of her head, though she couldn't possibly fathom the reality if it was indeed romantic. What would everyone think?

Draco sighed and collapsed on his messy, slept-in sheets wondering if his mother could be correct. Maybe this new feeling was a sign that she was the girl for him, his former enemy and now the girl in the room down the hall from him. He could almost pity Ronald, for the poor boy had no control over this. He didn't deserve it, but Hermione should have her freedom. That was what Draco believed.

Fractals of the memory and images of each other lingered in their dreams that night. Neither one even considered bringing the topic up, because it was shameful and awkward, but they wanted to. This feeling was something they craved, something everyone craves. To love and to be loved might be the most pursued ideal of all. But oftentimes it is a hesitant dance, of sorts, one with sudden maneuvers and blind leaps of faith. Both Hermione and Draco wanted to dive into this waltz, or tango, or whatever it might be, but both believed they would face utter mortification with the supposedly impending rejection. Just another part of the routine, if one sees it that way. Maybe love is all a game, and you have to win in order to be happy.