Harry Potter: Among Shadows and Silence

Had it not been for the biting prickles still swimming beneath his skin, a wonderful insult would be tumbling out of his mouth by now Instead, he cautiously surrendered his arm to her again, careful to keep his features hard so she wouldn't allow herself to believe he was at all comfortable with it. Her fingers were on him again; lulling little caresses that seemed to linger across his fine hairs like static. True to her word, she kept her reaction indifferent as she pushed his sleeve back up, careful to keep her wand and eyes away from the black stain.

The lip-chewing witch was doing everything she could to ignore the Dark Mark, but she would swear she could feel it glowering at her; judging her Muggle heritage and her loyalty to the Phoenix. She half-sealed her eyes and took a deep breath, catching a breeze of Malfoy's scent. It was different now, no longer cider-sweet from his apple diet, but masculine and refined. There was a hint of that new book smell she'd always found appealing, and a dash of her minty soap, that merged perfectly with his earthy, male spice. It was nice...

"Okay," Hermione mumbled somewhat breathlessly, lowering her wand and releasing his arm. "I think that's it."

"Good," he breathed, finding his arm suddenly felt rather cold without her touch.

"How do you feel?" she asked, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Any dizziness or-

"No," he lied bitterly, steeling himself with the meagre scraps of his dignity to leave the couch. He put everything he had into making his movements as fluid as possible, and was almost safely inside his room when Granger's voice stalled him. Merlin forbid she leave him in peace.

"Malfoy," she called him, a nervous scratch to her voice. "Can I...Can I ask you something before you go?"

He cursed his curiosity to the other side and back as he leaned his shoulder against the wall and shot her a fierce glare. "Make it quick, Granger."

"Well," she murmured with obvious reservations. "Do you remember when you first came here and you asked how I felt about you? And I said-

"You had a rant about how much you despised me," he finished impatiently, rolling his eyes. "Yes, so?"

"But I...I said just now that I didn't hate you," Hermione continued, fidgeting anxiously. "That hate was a strong word-

"Bloody hell," he growled through connected teeth. "This pointless memory exercise better have a point. Get on with it, Granger!"

"How do you feel about me now?" she asked in a staccato rush, unable to look at him. "I mean...do you still hate me?"

His eyes were a stormy mix of agitation and confusion that made her feel just that little bit more idiotic. The question seemed to ring in his ears and stir memories of his obsession with her showers, and the almost civil talks that they'd accidentally stumbled into as of late. Did he hate her? Yes, just not in the same way. He hated her now for confusing him and screwing with his predefined perceptions of her. He hated her because she had somehow become borderline tolerable, but he hated her most because she made him think; made him question himself.

"Do I hate you?" he repeated with a flawless patronising snarl. "More and more each day."

He didn't wait to witness her reaction and barged his way into his room, just managing to reach his bed before he collapsed with still-struggling muscles. He brought his hand up to his eyes and inspected it, one again acknowledging that Granger had done a decent job with fixing a wound. His skin was unblemished ivory again; but he would swear he could still feel an unnatural buzz across his wrist and palm.

It wasn't like the crawling sting from McGonagall's wards, but more...more like the pleasant remains of Granger's soothing fingers...

It was a ridiculous and dangerous notion, and he balled his fists and slammed them into the mattres with a revolted grunt.

He'd been wrong; this was what he loathed most about her. She was polluting him like a blissful virus, infecting him inch by inch; sense by sense. He went through the motions in his head, listing her invasion of his senses. First it had been her smell, closely followed by her shower sounds. And then his eyes had come to acknowledge that she wasn't the ugly Muggle-spawn she was supposed to be. And now, he could feel her; her touch across his skin and her essence still waltzing in his veins from the day on the bathroom floor.

That was four; smell, sound, sight and touch. What was the fifth?

Oh yes. Taste.

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