Yours in Mayhem |Dramione

35 yours in disintegration|| pt. 1

He took a sharp intake of breathe through gritted teeth. He craves her so much, it might just drive him insane.

"I smell... The owlery, dragon's breath..." she could have spat fire with the words that she's throwing out, "...wet dog and rotten eggs."

Slughorn chuckled uncomfortably. "Erm, sounds lovely."

"Thank you," Hermione said before going back to her seat with Potter and the Weasel. He could have sworn that he saw the Weasel smell himself.

He heard Nott cluck his tongue, "Fiery, that one," he referred to said girl. "Makes you just want to break her into submission, don't you? Get her on her knees and--"

Draco stood up, grabbed his things and pointed his wand at Nott. "Flippendo," Nott was thrown from his seat to the ceiling. Everybody watched as Theodore Nott's dark hair made contact with the centuries old candleholder of the classroom. It shook with such malevolent force and continued quaking with every curse word that Nott threw his way as Draco walked to the door.

"Here's the part where you'll say 50 points--"

"Seventy!" Cried Slughorn.

"Make that a hundred from Slytherin plus a month of detention for me and see if I care. My hand slipped, so here's my apologies," he pretended to pull out something from his robes but showed an indecent hand gesture to the class instead. "Yes, I'll escort my self out and good day to you all," everyone watched Draco walk towards the dungeon door with shock in their eyes. Even said girl with the almond skin and soft matted curls in a bun stared even though she wasn't supposed to look at him. Her mouth was slightly open and there was fear in her eyes. She didn't know what he just did for her, she must think that he must be acting up-- trying to get attention. He'd like to think that this would be a funny story after the war, when they'd meet again. They'd chat about it over coffee and butter cookies-- yes, he still remembers-- she'd start liking them when she turns thirty. He remembers things as long as they are related to her. Isn't that just wicked? He'd have to wait years again.

He didn't realize that he was staring at her too until she closed her mouth and turned away. Like she should.

He should turn away too and he did but it didn't make any difference.

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"...I've discovered this boy lurking in an upstairs corridor. He claims to be invited to your party."

Hermione almost dropped her butterbeer on Ron's freshly polished shoes, but he held the glass in place on her hand. She shouldn't have looked that way. He was there. Him. He was looking paler than ever, the bag under his eyes darker-- he's getting thinner too, expensive dark robes getting baggy around his lean body. Just seeing his form in her mind made her heart ache. Like paper being crumpled again and again.

"Sorry. It's really cold, almost slipped my fingers," she whispered to Ron with a smile as she turn away, pretending not to have noticed who Filch just dragged into the party.

She can recognize his smell everywhere. As a matter of fact when she walked over the pot of Amortentia it was all his cologne, the infirmary and the library with the cold feeling of snow. The smell clung to her clothes and she can tell no one. Absolutely no one because only she can smell the effects of Amortentia on her. It was pathetic really, to have a private incurable suffering just because. It defied logic.

"Okay! Okay! I was gate crashing! Happy?"

Ron turned back from Hermione and looked over the newly forming commotion in Slughorn's side of the party. "Bloody hell, can't even get one single night of peace from this sodding prick. What does he want now?"