Trials of Affliction and Light Sleeping

 

Chapter
8

 

When Draco woke up the next morning, he quickly noted that several
things were wrong.

Firstly: He had insomnia, how could he possibly be ‘waking up’?

Secondly: Who’s hand was it that was
comfortably laying on top of his hip?

Oh right, Potter’s.

Okay then...  Thirdly: Why has
Draco not pounced on him yet, or vice versa? 
The last time Draco had encountered Potter the mating pull had been
irresistible.  He would have let Potter
take him right there, up against the classroom wall, if it hadn’t been for
Granger’s interruption.  Bless her for
it, by the way.  So what happened?

Lastly: Why doesn’t Potter smell like Potter.

Why does he smell like Granger?

 

“Granger?”  Draco
asked the person laying behind him.

“Shhhht” he got in reply.  “Go
back to sleep”.

“Granger, what exactly are you
doing in my bed?”  Draco asked the
Gryffindor who, as Draco could see after turning unto his other side, laid next
to him in what had been Potter’s clothes.

 

“Helping you to sleep” Hermione answered with a yawn.  “It helped didn’t it?”

While she tried to stifle her yawn, Draco leaned in and thoroughly
sniffed Hermione’s face.

“Polyjuice potion” Draco smirked after recognising the distinct
aroma. 

How could he have missed that?  Polyjuice
potion does not only mimic the person’s looks, but also his or her smell.  Granger had known that Potter couldn’t
approach him without endangering himself, so she had taken his place in giving
Draco the physical contact his body needed while fooling his senses with
Polyjuice potion.  Clever little Witch.

Hermione stared back at him with wide eyes after having watched Malfoy
sniffing her face.  First he had grown a
bunny tail and now he was sniffing her like a puppy? 

Every day he was turning more and more into some sort of cute little
animal. 

Hermione couldn't help but to take in the appearance of her bed
partner.  Malfoy’s usually impeccable
hair was a bit muzzled up, giving him a boyish look that Hermione hadn’t even
seen when she had known him while still being a little boy.

Why did she suddenly have trouble breathing?

It positively had nothing to do with the fact that she was currently
sharing a bed with one of the best looking young men at Hogwarts.

It also wasn’t because her arm was now loosely wrapped around his bare
waist, his shirt having risen up while he had rolled unto his other side.

Neither was it because she was merely inches away from the lips that had
been able to turn her insides to mush when they had touched her own.

Nor was it because she desperately wanted him
to kiss her again.

Oh hell!

“Since we’re both awake there’s no use for lingering about,” Hermione
squeaked as she jumped of the bed as if it had caught fire.  “I’m going to get ready for classes.” 

Draco smirked as he got full view of Granger, who was now standing
up.  Draco had often heard that girls in
men’s clothing looked endearing and, now that he had seen it, he had to agree
with that statement.  Having transformed
back into her own body Granger’s clothes had grown several sizes too big,
making her look like she was drowning in them. 
And her usually already bushy hair had gone into complete disarray and
was all over the place.  Draco thought
that she looked rather... cute. 

“What?”  Hermione asked warily as
she caught Malfoy looking at her funny.

“Nothing” Draco said offhandedly. 
“Just thinking that you look cute, that’s all.”

Hermione blessed the fates that it was still rather dark in the room, as
her face must have been a sight to see.  If
she were a cartoon character, her eyes would have propelled out of her skull on
string wires and her yaw would have hit the floor with her tongue rolling out
as if it were a dropped roll of toilet paper.

She had not expected him to say that.

Did Malfoy just say she looked cute?

“Right,
see you later” Hermione said in an unemotional tone as she turned around and
left the room.  She marched into her
bedroom, closed the door, grabbed a pillow, pressed it into her face and
screamed into it from the top of her lungs.

When she
felt a bit better, she sat herself down on the edge her bed to do some
thinking.  Why did she just scream into
her pillow like a prepubescent girl with a temper tantrum? 

Malfoy
had said she looked cute.

Right, so she didn’t deal with compliments
very well.

...

Okay, that’s a big fat lie.  She thrived on compliments; they made her
feel good about herself.  One might not
think it because of the proud way she carried herself, but Hermione has always
had some issues with self-confidence. 
Ever since she had first started attending Muggle pre-school, she had
used her excellence in academics as a shield to cover up her insecurities.  The thought that her grades might slip had
always been her greatest fear.  If she
didn’t have her smarts, what else did she have? 
The fact that her Boggart had been McGonagall telling her that she
failed all of her exams should say enough.

No, she didn’t have a problem with
compliments. 

Not about grades or achievements anyway. 

The fact was that she didn’t know how to react
to someone complimenting her looks. 

She knew she wasn’t a stunner.  She had bushy hair, a mousy complexion and
her figure was a bit too curvy for her own liking.  No one had ever told her that she looked pretty,
so why would she think the contrary?  The
only time anyone had complemented her appearance was when she had attended the
Yule ball in fourth year.  And Hermione
reckoned that that was only because she had spent the whole afternoon in front
of the mirror.  Even then people were
mostly surprised by the fact that she had worn a dress, had make-up on, had
smoothened her hair and *shocker* apparently was a girl.  She wasn’t prepared to spend hours prettying
herself up every day just to blend in with the rest of the pack.  Her goal wasn’t to excel in her looks, it was to excel in her acts.  This was something she had decided long ago
and was perfectly okay with. 

And now Malfoy had said she looked cute.

Hermione got up from the bed and walked
towards her closet to pick out her clothes for the day.  When she opened the door and caught sight of
her own reflection into the mirror on the inside of the door, she concluded
that Malfoy had to be mocking her.  She
looked pale, her eyes were poufy and her hair looked like a giant birds
nest.  Not to mention the humungous
clothes that made her look like she weighed 200 pounds.

No, he had obviously been sarcastic.  Especially when considering that Malfoy had
always been the first to call Hermione on her physical flaws.

But that still didn’t explain as to why she
reacted so strongly to the thought that he might not have been kidding.

“I liked
the way he kissed, that is all!”  Hermione
told herself as she pulled Harry’s shirt over her head and threw it unto the
bed.  

Last night Hermione had been on Harry’s side of the equation.  And even if it had been for only an hour, she
could say that it had been quite the experience.  Harry had given her one of his hairs (she
could have just taken it, but didn’t want to betray her friend’s trust like
that), helped her steal some Polyjuice potion from Snape’s cupboard and had
given her some of his clothes to wear. 
He had insisted that she put them on before the transformation and made
her promise not to do any ‘peeking’ while in his body.  She had complied (if somewhat reluctantly)
and had postponed the exploration of the male anatomy to yet another date on
her calendar. 

Malfoy had expressed nothing but bother and contempt upon her arrival in
his bedroom, yet his eyes had been full of hunger and lust, as he had been
devouring her body with his eyes.  She
had almost physically cringed under his gaze. 
At that point, Hermione had almost fled the room, finding it hard to
deal with the fact that Malfoy was looking at her like that, yet not.  Hermione had to keep telling herself that it
was Harry who he was attracted to and not she herself.  No one had ever looked at her that way, with
such hunger and raw animal passion.  When
Malfoy had looked at her like that, she had never felt more rejected in her
life.  And she couldn’t even fully
comprehend why.  

She had never really taken much interest in the opposite sex in any
other way than friendship, so -unlike most of her peers- she hadn’t actually
had a boyfriend yet.  And it wasn’t
exactly as if boys were lining up to go out with her.  Perhaps one day a person would look past her
plain exterior and fancy her for her smarts. 
But as of yet, she had never found herself walking down a street with
young men yearningly shouting at her “Whoa, look at that brain!”

When she had forcefully spooned herself behind Malfoy she had just
pretended that he knew it was her who was behind him.  That there was someone who enjoyed her touch
and found her presence so intoxicating that it immediately brought him into a
pleasant slumber.  After a while, she had
felt herself transforming back into her own body while still cradling his
sleeping form.  Last night had been the
longest she had been that physically close to another person.  Never in her life had she felt more feminine
while holding that undeniably sexy man in her arms.  She also hated herself for doing it without
his knowledge and in the guise of treatment.

Hermione stopped to look at herself into the mirror of her
bathroom.  She felt like spitting at her
reflection.  She had always thought that
having full knowledge about her own strengths and flaws would spare her from
getting hurt.  She knew that she wasn’t
the kind of person who anyone would ‘lust after’ or would want to
‘conquer’.  That knowledge had made her
feel safe; as long as she didn’t expect anyone to feel these things towards
her, she wouldn’t get hurt.  But when
last night Malfoy had looked at her as if he had wanted to devour her very
soul, she realised that she might actually want to be lusted after and wanted
to be conquered.   By
Malfoy, no less.

But why?

She didn’t have any feelings for Malfoy!

She did not even like him!

He wasn’t even her type.  He was
constantly smirking, drawling, and sneering and always talked in that silky
seductive tone of voice.  It was as if he
wanted to warn everyone that he could seduce him or her just with the sound of
his voice.  He wasn't going to, because
you were beneath him, but he just wanted you to know that he could. 

Moreover, he looked too perfect. 
His flawlessly symmetric face annoyed her.  It was pointy and aristocratic and it looked
as if he was made to look superior.

Which he really wasn’t!

Hermione strongly suspected him of using Foundation, because no ones
skin could be that smooth and spotless without any external help.  His hair always looked like he had used a
ruler to see if it all was exactly the way it should be.  He never wore the same clothes more than one
day in a row and they never had a crease or a spot on them.  Draco Malfoy might look like a picture from
the cover of one of those smutty romance novels, but he had one other thing in
common with those pictures.

He was fake.

         Malfoy had been thought how to dress
and how to behave since was still in his foetal-stage.  He was like a sculpture, moulded from a glob
of clay into what the artist wanted it to look like.

A sculpture with an annoying attitude at that. 
He was spoiled, always got what her wanted and just couldn’t let the
little things go.

No, she was not jealous of the fact that he just said what he wanted to
say and whenever he wanted to say it, without caring if people would dislike
him for it or not. 

Nor did she admire him for his persistence when he wanted something and
his ability in getting it. 

And she thoroughly hated the fact that he always questioned her
actions and decisions and actually was intelligent and clever enough to do so
without looking stupid. 

Neither did Hermione internally applaud him when he came up with yet
another witty retort to her one of her own banters. 

And nor did she actually like fighting with him because it made her able
to cut loose and let everything out while being clever and creative at the same
time. 

Nor did the dishevelled sight of him in the morning make her feel
privileged for being one of the select few to have seen it. 

And neither did she enjoy the fact that apparently she was the only one
he trusted to share his problems with.

And she also didn’t feel ashamed to know that when he looked at her, or
touched her, or even kissed her; he rather wanted to be with Harry.

She didn’t.

And besides, the whole dating-thing was rather pathetic really.  A girl would be swooning over some dim-witted
guy, only to break up with that very same guy after one only week because he
hadn’t noticed that she was wearing new nail polish,
or what not.  At least she had the
brains to know that it is actually possible to be a whole person without being
in a relationship.  Hermione had observed
those juvenile mating-rituals plenty to know that they weren’t something she
would want to engage in. 

Even if it came with hugging, snogging, spooning and... other stuff she didn’t even dare to let her mind drift off
to.

She didn’t.

...

Hermione sighed in defeat as she looked at her reflection with disdain.

“Hi, I’m Hermione Granger and I have the Florence Nightingale Syndrome”
she said aloud as if she were currently attending a self-support group.

“That’s nice dear“
the mirror replied with a yawn. 
“But before you go into therapy, you first might want to do something
about that hair.”

 

**********

End of
Chapter 8