MAGNOLIAS
Blue now is the colour
Love the drug I'm needing
Got to keep this feeling
With the headlights burning
We're looking up for something
Answers on the ceiling
Watching out the windows
Watch the way the wind blows
Soon it will be morning
Still the question lingers
I twist it round my fingers
Could you be my calling? PJ Harvey, the Slow Drug
CHAPTER THREE: The Nature of the Unconceivable
"I'm beginning think that we were meant to have these conversations in the dark, Hermione."
There was something deliciously dangerous about the close proximity of her lips. He nearly forgot about his intentions of seeking her out, the mere scent of her erasing all his thoughts about their previous conversation. He towered over her, he mused. Had she always been this tiny? Forcing himself to close his eyes and try to regain some of his composure, he unconsciously tangled his fingers in her. He watched with an almost feral pleasure as she trembled under both his touch and his gaze. He was momentarily caught off guard as her hand came to rest shyly against her cheek, her fingertips brushing gently against his skin. A soft sigh escaped her lips and he wondered what it would be like to kiss her.
He was drowning in a sea of darkness. Why was it that she followed without any hesitation? Could she explain his mysterious need for her? He was losing his mind, he decided. Needing her this desperately had to be a sign of insanity, especially since he had no idea why.
Harry violently untangled himself from their semi-embrace and pushed himself away, turning his back so that he could regain his control. He swallowed. He didn't understand any of this. How was it that being around her, simply breathing the same air as her, was sending him into sensory overload? He was already gripping the fringes of his sanity? How could he possibly even begin to control himself with this?
"What are you doing on this side of the house?" A stupid question, but a needed diversion nonetheless. He didn't even know what this side of the house was. Echoes of her conversation with Ron scraped against his subconscious. She was miserable about something, he had no doubt. But something had set her off, something more than Ron. You could use it against her, a voice in his head crooned.
"I- I don't know," she finally answered. He turned and watched as she wrapped her arms around herself as if she were trying to protect herself from the darkness of the hall.
"You don't know?" The words escaped his lips harsher than he intended them. An odd feeling in his stomach clawed at him as she turned away from him completely. For moment, he could have sworn he was facing the terrified eleven year-old from their first year, the very same girl who continuously put on a brave front despite her fears. Now she stood with her back facing him, as if she was seeking to protect herself from him.
"I don't know." She left no room in her voice for further question, but he did not miss the slight wavering in her words. For once, he reveled in having the emotional upper hand of the situation. It was sickeningly empowering to know he could stir the ever-composed Hermione Granger.
"I heard your conversation with Ron," he tested.
She stiffened and he fought to keep a malicious grin of his face. The voice in the back of his head cheered in twisted delight. She doesn't understand, it whispered. No one does. She will never understand.
"I'm not surprised," Hermione murmured, her voice exhausted and forlorn. It was as if she were trying to be as passive as possible. Just like everyone else in the this damn house, the voice finished. "I'm going to bed."
Oh no, he thought. You're not going anywhere.
"I thought you wanted to talk to me, Hermione," he mocked, goading her into an argument. She whirled around, her eyes flashing dangerously. Streams of light escaping from a window in the corner lightened her silhouette.
"Are you intentionally trying to be a prat like Ron, Harry? Or are you that desperate in trying to get me to hit you?"
She was in his space again, her vanilla perfume threatening to cut the last few strands of his sanity. He forced his eyes to focus on the empty space above her. They were soon drawn to another window in the far ends of the hallway, where the moon kissed the carpeted floor. Whispers of Ron's nightly confessions one hot summer night before the start of their fourth year resurfaced. They had been sitting by the front steps, watching Ginny and Hermione catch fireflies.
There's something about her mate, something I can't quite put my fingers on. It'll be the end of me though. It's as if she lights up the room…
He had been too deep in his crush on Cho to really pay attention to what Ron was saying. Nevertheless, he did remember the wistfulness in his friend's voice. Was Hermione really that unattainable? In fact, what made her that way? Now he wondered what Ron had really seen.
Swallowing, he shifted from foot to foot. "It goes both ways," he murmured, breaking free of the spell his memory briefly cast. She said nothing in response, her gaze intense and unnerving.
He struggled to continue, fighting the allure she exuded. Her eyes were far too bright. The scent of her perfume far was too enthralling. He had to keep his mind straight. "You- You want me to talk to you, but you don't talk to me. And I'm not ready to talk to you, Hermione. In fact, I don't think I'm ready to talk to anyone yet. But remember, it goes both ways."
Her hand reached out and grabbed him by the wrist before he could escape. The simple contact, skin against skin, burned him. This is what scared him, this longing for something that he couldn't understand.
"It isn't working, Harry," she began quietly, her voice laced with a sad fury. "I'm not going to pretend to understand what you're going through, but you can't make me go away. I'll keep telling you this if I have to."
"Will you?" He tried to regain control of the situation, prying his hand out of her grip. He turned his back to her this time, fighting to steady his breathing. She was watching him. He could feel her eyes burning holes into him, but he refused to unravel under the intensity of her presence.
Eyes were the windows if the soul, so goes the old saying. He was guilty of applying this statement to Hermione. She had beautiful eyes, something that he had acknowledged since that fateful meeting on the train to Hogwarts. Something he would never bring himself to telling her.
It was her eyes, their warmth and honesty that drew him to her. Her emotional strength was a constant fixture in his life, so much so that he was addicted to it like a drug.
But the intensity of her gaze seemed to illuminate the dark hallway. It scared him. It was as if she were trying to piece together a puzzle. An immensely complex puzzle that would better if it were left alone, he thought sourly. Unfortunately for him, Hermione was brilliant at puzzles and worse- She had the patience for them.
It scared him even more that he couldn't read her.
He trembled as she slowly took him by the hand again, the contact between them nearly maddening. He was utterly at a loss with his desperate struggle to keep her at bay while wanting her intoxicatingly close.
"Harry," she murmured tiredly. "We can't dance in circles forever. If you need space, I'll give it to you… just come forward and ask me."
He heard her sigh. "You're absolutely right, it does go both ways. You want to talk? I'll listen. But you want me to talk you? You've got to want to listen."
Her hand released his from her grip and he watched as she stepped in front of him. Suddenly, it was as if he were seeing her for the first time. Nearly six years of friendship, innocent times spent together even with the knowledge of Voldemort looming of their heads. Sometimes they laughed. Sometimes they yelled. Sometimes they cried. But somehow they still managed to remain friends.
Now things were changing.
Ron, he could always understand. He knew where the other boy stood in his life and could guess where he'd stand in the future, if he ever made it that far. Then there was Hermione. Questions and even more frequently, answers that he thought were set in stone plagued him constantly. There was one disturbing question that stood out in his mind.
Had he ever listened to her?
Brushing a shaking hand over his hair, he closed his eyes with hopes of getting control of his thoughts. I should just walk away, he chanted as a mantra. A part of him recognized the dangerous territory he was treading with Hermione and warned him to back away. Another part whispered that it was inevitable. He was going to eventually have to deal with it. But his thoughts were interrupted, Hermione's voice drifting towards him like the passing wind
"I want to listen to you," she whispered. She moved another step backwards, only hesitating slightly as if she hoped he would stop her. "Why is that so hard to believe?"
He couldn't even bring himself to form her name on his lips, torn between his fear of what stopping her would lead to and his relief that pushing her away was working. It would be easier if she were the one to walk away. Yet he found himself watching in fear, as she seemed to fade, the darkness opening its arms and swallowing her.
Why was it so hard to believe?
A/N: Well, wow. Thanks guys. The story was only on chapter two and this is the response I get? *blinks* I'm a little overwhelmed with the response only because the story is just beginning really.
I've got nothing really to say this time around, except please continue feeding my ego and review. Thank you to my wonderful betas Sarah, Alexandra, two very awesome people. And thank you my reviewers, I can't stress that enough.