Please Understand

Please understand that there's more to this than either of us will ever be able to comprehend. I'm slightly (understatement) confused and there's not a lot I wouldn't wager on you feelin' the same.

It's tough to be alone.

I guess I kinda knew that, but I never really got it until you were no longer there. And having you "back" is so intoxicating.... It's so easy to use the old patterns of behavior, and to ignore all the reasons it was good for us to be alone in the first place, to hear a small traitorous voice whisper that those reasons don't hold true anymore.

But they have to be true! Being alone is hard and (egads) lonely, but if our reasons for being alone aren't true anymore, we'd have to try. And that's fucking scary (in more ways than one). Your arms feel like safety to me, but that will only last so long as I'm in them. I leave in the morning, and you leave after that.

Being alone is hard, but being with you, far away, is not easy.

So, is it just for old times' sake that you're in my bed? It must be, else why would I talk about others there've been since then and pretend I don't see you wince? It must be, because that is at least something I can comprehend.

So, please understand: "I love you" doesn't mean there aren't still reasons I can't.

Aftermath

Today, I realized how much you had become a part of who I am. I thought about you, and I couldn't stop. I traced 'uruz' on my wrist for the first time in over a month because it suddenly started hurting again, just like I suddenly thought of you again.

I never wrote about what happened. I never put it into words. I just stopped writing about you at all, just like I stopped texting you, stopped being your friend on Facebook, and stopped seeing you. What would I have written? You screwed up. I screwed up. And maybe I'm screwing up all over again.

I think I was a little bit in love with you. Or maybe the fact that it hurts even now just fools me into thinking so. But we were years in the making, only to shatter within seconds. Unfulfilled. And it wasn't just the mythical "Us" that broke. I think it broke me a little bit, too, just like I think I was a little bit in love with you. After all, there's now this little fragment of me that was completely composed by you.

I can't seem to bring myself to hate that.

No, I never wrote about what happened. This is the closest I've come.

You're the second male to ever hurt me that way. The first listened to me later that night, seven weeks ago, as I spoke with quiet fear, and he sobbed out that he was wrong, that you were wrong, that it was never my fault. He was sorry, even if you aren't.

Between the two of you, I will never be the same in so many ways.

It's kind of terrible, really. That a woman as beautiful, confident, strong, seductive, responsible, intelligent, and no-nonsense as I am has only ever fallen in love with the two men who hurt her the worst. God. I am a melodramatic, prattling, fool.

I ignored it, both times, both men. I addressed the issue accordingly, and then went off with my life as though nothing had ever happened. I pretended that I still enjoyed being kissed with passion rather than sweetness and that I didn't want to jerk away anytime a male touched my wrists. I deluded myself that I'd always loved films and that I'd find a salsa partner who doesn't make me think of the way you whirled me about your living room. I imagined that the reason that tall, dark males now warrant second conversations is because tall, dark males are my type, even though my type actually has blond curls.

But something did happen, both times, both men. I feel nervous whenever guys kiss me more than softly and I am immediately turned off and even frightened when they chance to wrap their hands around my wrist. I held movies in contempt before you and I started discussing them like literature and I've only been salsa dancing once since that night. The only reason tall, dark males catch my attention these days is because, from the corner of one eye, I almost mistake them for you.

I don't really need to write about what happened. No, not really.

The aftermath - the way my fingers trembled a tattoo on the steering wheel on the way home, the way I winced through my essays the next day, the way that I am only now beginning to come to terms with it seven weeks later - is enough to write about. The aftermath says everything about what happened, without going into sordid details of betrayal and blame. What happened was never about the event.

Lost:

- My contempt for films

- My ability to see films without wondering what you thought of it

- A good salsa partner

- A pain-free right wrist

- A flair for rough play

- Countless good times with you

- Several good times with someone else

- At least a lifetime's worth of passionate kisses

- One friend on Facebook

- One Netflix customer

- One ounce of self-respect

- Two pounds of confidence

- Three tons of faith in the goodness of humanity

Gained:

- An appreciation of films

- A new writing style

- An analytical mindset

- A new "type" of male

- The discovery that I am good at cha-cha

- Time that used to be spent trying to figure you out

- A penchant for cuddling

- A fresh start

- Countless good times with other people

- Countless opportunities to make new friends

- At least a lifetime's worth of sweet kisses

- One Netflix customer

- One ton of self-respect

- Two pounds of confidence in the short-term

- Another two tons of confidence in the long-term

- Two pounds of faith in myself

- Three ounces of cynicism

- Recognition that what happened changed me

- The knowledge that what happened changed me for the better

Southern Darling Reality

If you are within five feet of my person and/or are talking to me, you are in my reality. No exceptions, ifs, buts, althoughs, howevers, perhapses or other prevarications. Those are the parameters of my reality and all rules apply. If you don't like the rules or choose not to abide by them, that is perfectly acceptable. You are free to leave my reality at any time and I am free to leave you at any time and take my reality with me. My rules are what make my reality a great place to be and, as I very much enjoy being in a great place, rules are always enforced.

To engage in my reality is to engage in upward motion. There are two key words in that sentence: "upward" and "motion."

"Upward" refers to all things positive. People are to be built up and made to feel good about themselves and the world around them. Smiles, as the number one signifiers of positive emotion, are both bountiful and prized. Any and all frowns are to be alchemized into smiles as quickly as possible.

"Motion" refers to change and progress. There is no status quo in my reality - only improvement thereon. Things are changed, learned from, built upon, and never allowed to stagnate. Laziness and complacency have no place in my reality. Ambition and initiative have mansions.

Taken together, the words "upward motion" refer to a consistent practice of changing things for the better and progressing to higher planes of thought and action.

My reality insists on complete, total, even brutal, honesty (which has a mansion, too, by the way). This means in all aspects - words, deeds, and identities included. This policy does not allow for lies, pretense, masks, self-delusion, or denial. Upward motion is not possible without a clear idea of the place one is moving upward from.

Extended upward motion is only possible if everyone contributes, and thus my reality is also a place of mutual benefit, or give and take. All things - conversation, favors, introductions, advice, clothing, listening ears, etc. - are to be freely shared with the understanding that all will be paid back in due course. This policy does not refer to a mercenary "scratch my back and I'll scratch yours" score-keeping mentality, but to a free-flowing (but not unconditional) generosity in all parties. Give as much value, if not more than, any value taken and upward motion will come easily to all.

The last rule of my reality is that it is my reality. I call the shots, I make the rules, and I decide what and who is cool. There is no one within my reality whom I do not know, cannot talk to, or am uncomfortable with. Anyone within my reality is a friend, someone with whom I can easily talk, and someone I am completely comfortable with.

Welcome to a great place. Enjoy your stay.

The Unwritten Vignette

I remember the days when everything was an affront, if only in the most ironic ways. Every situation called for sarcasm and cynicism. (Optimism is much less entertaining.)

There's something to be said for the Queen of Sardonic Smirks - she's the Queen! And yet I do not find it in me to be truly jealous. She may be the Queen, but Sardonic Smirks do not compose a fairy tale kingdom. (But then again, her appeal always was in tossing the fairy tale on its wings.)

I was an obnoxious seven year old, an obnoxious fourteen year old, and no doubt obnoxious now, too. And I got (get) away with it because I am precocious. But most people don't give a shit about precocious, 'cause that has leopard spots to do with people. However, people are into quirky. Obnoxious and quirky even complement each other (they add up to 180). But you gotta smile a lot to be quirky, so I guess I'd better start smilin' more.

Half the point is that even if I leave everything out for anyone and their bag of chips to see, there will still be a few galaxies of information that they'll never even glimpse. The people we think we know are underestimates. (Non-existent devil abode, we're underestimates. Almost no one is everything they could be.)

If there's one thing I miss from those days, it's the sass. I'm so serious now - all my irony is so subtle that it's liable to be overlooked. (My sarcasm is nearly as invisible as I used to be.) That Queen of Sardonic Smirks certainly knew how to turn a phrase past 360. (And the straight-up Southern Darling doesn't? That's a jarring jack-of-the-box of an idea.)

I'm going to continue to feed the starving orphans in Africa. What I write isn't "deep" - it's basic soap-style melodrama. Who gives a sopping towel about some guy I looked at from across the room or whether or not I think I'm lonely? I complain in glittering trash about how much non-meaning words have (such a shame that there's more trash than glitter). I should take my own advice and talk less than I walk.

So, it's oh-dark-thirty in the morning (2:26) and I'm lying in bed, monstrous blue headphones swallowing my chin, hunting and pecking at my iPod screen. And it's no novelty of a scene. Writing (hunting and pecking) means shadows that could be mistaken for messed up eye makeup. ("Where'd you find that shade of purple?")

Tomorrow I'll roll out of bed with a groan (possibly of the explicit variety) and slap that sadistic screaming clock into submission. For all of approximately nine minutes, at which point I may actually leave my room. Maybe. If I don't burrow back beneath my covers for warmth so I don't have to begin my day of relearning how to smile just right. (Although I abdicated the throne of Sardonic Smirks, I have yet to complete my immigration to the Smiling Society.)

And I'll still remember the days when everything used to be an affront, and I'll have to pretend that there aren't some things about those horrible, awful, obnoxious, precocious days that I miss. (Shhh.... This vignette was never written.)

Re: Posts from early 2008

Part of the purpose of keeping this blog is to chart change and progress, as well as continuity. That said, there are posts on this blog that represent ways that I no longer think. Some of which I think were great stepping stones, and others of which I do the face-palm for.

So, when reading the earlier posts of this blog, feel free to laugh, appreciate, be appalled, be angry, and mock (well, really, you should always feel free to mock). Keep in mind that only the most recent posts (like, one written yesterday) are guaranteed to represent the way I currently think.

(Of course, all this is assuming that anyone can actually be bothered to go back and read the early stuff. Yeah, I'm vain that way.)

Abandoning the Current

If you were the world, then I was the wake, trailing along in the somnolent current of fate with one eye devouring the shore. How much will happen and how much will I have to make happen? If you knew the answer (or even the question) I'm sure you'd respond, but blindness and silence seem to lay between the same set of sheets. (That pattern looks rather familiar....)

I catch your gaze from across the room and feel something catch between naivete and experience, longing and logic. Later, I describe the moment I haven't been able to stop thinking about as "boring," because I know that what means far more to me than it does to you makes for a poor tale indeed. ("Could you please blow something up already? The melodrama in this paragraph is more than enough to feed the starving orphans in Africa for the next century.")

I wonder, despite reality squawking from my shoulder, what you think of me, what you felt when land met water eye to eye. ("Silly girl! Stupid girl! Doesn't matter!") Even worse, I then wonder what he thought as our voices mingled over the backgammon board and, further still, what that other saw as I danced alone in a crush of males afraid of movement. Wondering makes me feel young, like I've never been more than a silly school girl chasing affection and a fairy tale, afraid that any delusions are of Pamela Anderson rather than of me. I am better than that. (Right?)

I calculate where the current will carry me if I stroke in the direction of any one possibility, but am so caught up in conjecture that I lose "control." I look and barely touch, catch your eye from across the room but never call a greeting, wonder but never wander, much less walk. As often as I advocate proactivity, I fail to act anyhow but passively.

Something (I) must change.

To start, I shall open the other eye and swim ashore to sleep. (Time for silence and blindness to get out of my bed and let me use it.) That other didn't see anything, much less the way I danced, and I've always known that the mingling of his voice with mine signifies nothing except the ways in which we are both empty. The next time we crash, eye to eye, land will not pull away from water and I will smile. (As a matter of fact, I am coming on to you.) Later, I'll tell the tale of the way we blew up, knowing that it is in no way boring, meaning as much to you as to me as to (now satisfied with its cracker) reality.

An Imperfect Diamond

You disappoint me and don't even know it; this is nothing new. So I don't know why every head-spinning comment surprises me. I'd like to think that I am too practical to turn you into something that you're not. Sure, you can mix chemicals to make our chemistry, but it doesn't fix anything that's really wrong. You're still going to be three steps behind me, unable (or unwilling) to match my stride. And I don't forget that. Why does every reminder surprise me?

If it were the spell of the winter season, I wouldn't recall standing in the summer sunshine in St. Louis and feeling the same sense of shame. Congratulations - my misappropriated attraction for you is a perennial bloom (which is far more than many others can claim). What does that say?

This entire thought process makes me sick in my stomach, 'cause I realize that it's always been this way. My heart may be married to my head, but they don't always information-share. All I've ever done is settle, allowed myself to be convinced by caresses and the romance that I find rare. Too practical to forget, my rose-bethorned eyes! I am far too practical and thus must forget. How many points does that score for Team IFT (Irony, Fate, and Temperance)?

I want to vanish into sleep now, but revelation has sufficiently interfered. This is why you're in my life, this is the lesson that you bear. I can't say I care for it very much, for all that it's (apparently) what I need to hear. So, next time I'll be more careful (What do you mean, "careful," you silly girl? As if attraction is something you control!) and I'll check the male thrice to make sure of my list. Brains, an open mind, a good work ethic, honesty, confidence, chemistry, and romance. Did I forget anything? (For all my intelligence and experience, my thoughts can still be frighteningly naive. Of course I forgot something - REALITY.)

So here's the diamond for the night, flawed, muddy, and chipped. It's not what you were hoping for, and it's not what I was hoping for either, but I guess it's what we get.

Silencio

Just to clarify, this is a work of fiction, based off the amazing fanfic by Akasha the Kitty, "Silencio."

My bed's never so uncomfortable as when you're not in it; where are you tonight? The empty hours creep by and I have to remember that I made you forget. I know there was a reason to begin with, but is this how it should end? But the bottle's been smashed and there's no turning back - tonight may find you anywhere but here with me.

There's a suspicious dampness just beneath my lashes, and I shouldn't confess that they're tears, but denial changes nothing. I know that better than anyone else, my dear. (And that's a cruel mockery of an endearment; I'm alone tonight and will be for years. My bed will be uncomfortable for years.)

The Violet Round, Chapter Three

AN #1: I figured I'd post this in it's original format, that is, as a fanfic. However, beyond what I've already written, there will be no more, although I will break it into smaller chapters. But in case you're curious.

AN #2: Harry Potter's world belongs to JK Rowling. I only write using it to improve my own writing skills. Nor do I own Much Ado About Nothing. However, Danielle Varens is all MINE, and I reserve the right to use her however I wish.

Danielle studied Malfoy for long moments, her mind quickly whirring from scenario to scenario. The implications of those ten words numbered in the millions. The politician in her wanted to sit down and start mapping them out, figuring each possibility to her advantage - starting with the choice of helping him or denying him.

He finally turned to look at her, arctic gray eyes meeting ice blue irises. His eyes widened.

She smirked.

Malfoy looked away first, his gaze returning to the horizon.

Danielle's smirk increased, taking further possession of her face.

Oh, yeah. She had the power here.

"Why?" she demanded.

"Because it would make living with her easier," he promptly replied, injecting a certain amount of bemusement into his voice.

One thin eyebrow arched.

"And?"

A sigh answered.

The waves lapped at the wood, rocking the platform of the dock.

He turned to face her straight on, crossing his arms across his chest, gaze locking with hers again.

"My mother and I are under investigation by the Ministry for our association with the Death Eaters before the war. It would be to our advantage were I to make amends with Potter's side-" he paused, giving his next words import, "particularly were I to make those amends with Granger." His eyes flicked away before meeting her gaze again. "Savvy, Varens?"

Danielle settled onto one hip to study him, thoughtfully lipping at the knuckle of her index finger.

Malfoy's hands went from resting on his upper arms to clutching at his rib cage as she regarded him.

She concealed a smile.

"I'll help you."

She watched as he visibly relaxed. Let him think he'd fooled her.

After all, one didn't need respect in order to have the upper hand.

~*~

Harry knocked on the entrance to Hermione's suite. He shuffled his feet a little as he waited for someone to answer. He only hoped she was here; he'd already looked everywhere else. If she didn't open the door, his only recourse would be to search the school all over again.

It would probably take all afternoon, and he'd miss Quidditch practice.

Fortunately for his time and his continued position as team captain, Hermione pulled the door wide and stood in the opening, blinking up at him.

He smiled down at her. She was so cute, with her hair rumpled from sleep, dressed in loose sweats and a t-shirt that was perhaps a little bit too small.

"Hey, Harry," she yawned, once she had gotten her bearings. "What's up?"

He loved standing next to her. She always made him feel so tall in comparison, like he was a giant and she a princess he had kidnapped. He felt himself growing warm.

Okay, best not to follow that line of thought.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay after seeing you leave the Great Hall like that," he murmured, shifting to lean against the stone outcropping that concealed the entryway.

"Oh." Annoyance flickered across her face, but was quickly gone as she yawned again. "I'm fine. Really."

"Oh. That's good."

He shifted again so he was standing upright.

She rocked back on her heels and bit her lip.

He massaged the back of his neck.

She crossed her arms.

"Er, what was that about anyways?" he finally asked. "That Varens girl didn't upset you or anything, did she?"

Her mouth dropped open.

Oops.

"Danielle is perfectly sweet, Harry," Hermione said scathingly. "You have absolutely no call to be rude to her. And no, she didn't upset me."

He swallowed, setting his Adam's apple bobbing.

"I'm sorry, I just thought -"

"What, Harry?" she interrupted. "That just because she's not your biggest fan ever that she must be a complete bitch?" She shook her head, leaning away from him, her lip curled. "Grow up, Harry. It's time to stop judging people."

Harry's hands curled into fists at his sides, his feet shoulder length apart, as he, too, leaned away from his best friend.

"You don't hear what she says to me!" he protested, glaring wildly. "She's a shrew, a vindictive shrew! A regular Beatrice!" he snorted derisively.

There was a beat of silence.

Hermione chuckled, relaxing her stance.

"What?" Harry demanded, still indignant.

She just giggled, "So if she's Beatrice, you're who? Benedick?"

Harry paled.

And then smiled.

And then slid down the doorframe, laughing with her.

"Merlin, no!" he chortled. "Gaaaaah! Heavens preserve me!"

"Hmmp!"

Harry paused to see Hermione blushing, fingers covering the mouth from which that most unladylike snort had just been emitted.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her down to roll on the floor and laugh with him.

The Violet Round, Chapter Two

AN #1: I figured I'd post this in it's original format, that is, as a fanfic. However, beyond what I've already written, there will be no more, although I will break it into smaller chapters. But in case you're curious.

AN #2: I don't own Harry Potter's world and I only write using it for my own development and amusement. However, Caleb Brackner and Danielle Varens are MINE, and I reserve all rights to use them wherever and however I want, which means that no one else has any rights to them. 'Kay. Thanks!

Breakfast was ash.

Well, likely not literally. But it may well have been for the way it felt on Hermione's tongue.

She took another bite.

Nope, still not as delicious as she knew it should be.

Her lack of appetite did not go unnoticed.

"It's not poisoned," Danielle reminded her, glancing up from one of her many romance novels. "You can eat it without grimacing after every bite and feeling around for tacks."

Hermione set down her fork and sighed into her palms.

Danielle put the novel aside expectantly.

"Malfoy walked in on me and Caleb last night."

"OOOOOh...." The blonde recoiled. "And Malfoy's gone to Dumbledore with it?"

"Psh!" The idea hadn't occured to Hermione, but it didn't worry her now that her friend mentioned it. "No. But now Caleb has turned into a sniveling coward."

"Oh...." The younger girl put a sympathetic hand on her knee. "I'm sorry. I know you hoped that maybe he was..."

"Different?" The Head Girl finished with a wry half-smile. "Yeah. But then, I always do, don't I?"

She pushed away from the table and plodded from the Great Hall with her hair in her face.

~*~

"Hermione?" Harry asked, reaching out a hand to touch her as she brushed past him on his way into the Great Hall, but drawing back before he made actual contact. "What's wrong?"

Her silent back offered no response as she continued on as though she hadn't heard him.

Ron grasped his arm.

"Let her go, mate. She's probably just in a mood again."

Harry glanced at Ginny, who shrugged.

"Alright then," he snapped, shaking Ron off peevishly. "I'll be good."

He all but stalked into the Great Hall, his glower deepening when he saw long golden-blonde hair.

"I'll bet you know something about that," he snapped as he took Hermione's vacated seat.

She glared coolly across the top of her book, lips pressed together.

Ginny and Ron exchanged looks as they settled across from the pair.

Even the witch on the cover of the paperback ceased her air-headed posing to eye the two nervously.

"Well?" Harry demanded. He wasn't used to such hostility from his friends. Well, his best friend's friend whom he'd gladly see at the bottom of the Lake.

She slowly turned her head to face him. A beat passed, then two, before an arsenic-sweet smile split her face.

"Harry, I will tell you what that was about once, and only once you grow a pair of balls."

She ignored the affront of the Boy Who Triumphed and returned her attentions to her romance novel.

Ron snickered.

Ginny covered her mouth with her hand.

Harry resembled a thundercloud, the lightning bolt standing livid on his visage.

"Why, you..." he growled, unable to think of something bad enough to call her that she wouldn't take as a compliment.

"Or you could ask Hermione, the one you're so concerned about," the infuriating Frenchwoman suggested, condescension dripping, not bothering to glance up. "That would be innovative."

Ginny and Ron studied their plates, shoulder shaking.

Fine. They were just as bad as she was.

Harry shoved away from the table and stalked from the Great Hall, muttering darkly.

That horrible, awful girl was making his life miserable.

If he'd bothered to look back, he'd have seen Danielle looking over her shoulder, a small smile playing about her lips.

~*~

"Varens."

She stopped cold on the spot, a tension that had previously been absent tightening the tendons in her neck as she slowly turned to face him. The effect was not unpleasant.

Draco thought, not for the first time, that it was shame that she had taken up with Granger and the Gryffindors since her transfer from Beauxbatons. She was, after all, a pureblood, and a beautiful one at that. She was tall, slender, with breasts just slightly too large for her frame, with long wheat-blonde hair and skin bronzed from the Mediterranean sun.

It didn't hurt that she wore her shirts slightly tighter than was strictly necessary.

"Malfoy." She greeted him less than warmly, her slight French accent doing nothing to belay the chill of her attitude. "What do you want?"

He let her see his eyes rake up her body and smirked. He should really trade-mark that expression.

"Well...."

"Oh, please," she rolled her eyes, tossing her head. "Yeah, you stopped to tell me you think I'm wank material. Duh. Old news." Varens gave him a smirk nearly as good as his own coupled with a disdainful scan of his body. "What do you really want, you prat?"

Draco found a new spark of respect for the girl. Noted: Not a pushover.

It was enough for him to be earnest with her.

He turned slightly and offered his arm.

"Walk with me."

She eyed him with suspicion, but slipped into a comfortable escort position, matching his steps as they began to stroll.

"So...."

His lips tugged up at the corners.

"So?" He couldn't resist taunting.

Varens gave him a bored look and the spark of respect was fanned.

"Whatever it is you want, I don't have to help you, you know," she informed him flatly. "In fact, I probably won't."

He shrugged lightly as they strolled out onto the lawn, the sunshine washing over them. It was a lovely Saturday, though hints of storm clouds could be seen at the edge of the Lake.

"I know. But it's not certain until I try, now is it?"

She nodded acknowledgement and the pair fell silent.

Draco drank in the sunshine, the nature, the students playing games as the promenaded past, chattering, studying, but Varens's eyes remained locked on his face, her expression perturbed.

He was much more interesting than another beautiful day.

Only when they came to a rest on a dock on the Lake, far from the other students, did Draco finally speak again, his gaze somewhere across the waves.

"I need you to help me become friends with Granger."

The Violet Round, Chapter One

AN #1: I figured I'd post this in it's original format, that is, as a fanfic. However, beyond what I've already written, there will be no more, although I will break it into smaller chapters. But in case you're curious.

AN #2: I don't own Harry Potter's world and I only write using it for my own development and amusement. However, Caleb Brackner and Danielle Varens are MINE, and I reserve all rights to use them wherever and however I want, which means that no one else has any rights to them. 'Kay. Thanks!

"Well, this is unprecedented."

Hermione broke off the kiss with a groan, not bothering to open her eyes, only hoping the mood wasn't broken.

"Sod off, Malfoy!"

She tugged at the boy's hair again, but, unfortunately, he resisted. Bollocks. Of course her fun would be ruined.... Her eyes finally flickered open to see Caleb's nervous eyes receding from across the circular couch and Draco Malfoy smirking in the doorway.

"Maybe I should go..." the Ravenclaw muttered, tugging awkwardly at his clothes as he stood up.

"No need to rush off on my account," that despicable blond drawled. "I was enjoying the show. I had no idea that our upright, perfect little war hero could be so..." He turned his smirk more specifically on Hermione, who glared back.

He should so die. Painfully.

"Naughty. Honestly, using the common room as a rendezvous.... Tsk, Granger."

Caleb blushed crimson, his eyes glued to the carpet.

Well, he was no help.

Malfoy deliberately crossed his legs, taking up more space in the doorway, blocking the other male's way out. Devilish fire seemed to backlight his visage as he studied his counterpart.

"Too much of a hurry to bother with the bedroom, I suppose. I can't say I entirely understand you, Brackner, but desperate times and all...."

Hermione finally accepted that her itch was not going to get scratched that night and sat upright, curling against the side of the couch. All the better to glare with.

Three words: Hell hath no.

She smiled sweetly at Malfoy.

"Just because I prefer an actual person to Mayfair is no reason to be upset, Malfoy," she all but purred. "No offense. I know how attached you are to your hand."

Silence reigned for a few long moments.

"Err... Essuseme?"

Malfoy didn't even look at the boy as he strode into the room, moving towards his own dormitory.

"Don't let me catch you in here again, Brackner. I will give you a detention."

The two doors clicked shut within moments of each other, a gunshot and its echo.

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest with a loud sigh.

There went that relationship.

~*~

Draco stomped straight through his room to his shower, grateful, once again, that though he and Granger had to share a common room, that they had separate bathrooms. It would be very embarrassing indeed if she suspected that he was taking a cold shower on her behalf.

It was just that he hadn't expected to come across her like... that. With a guy. Brackner, of all guys, but still a guy, moaning passionately with her hair a mess as his hands worked through it. And she hadn't been passive in the situation at all - she had been nipping at the Ravenclaw, running her hands over him, in charge despite her bottom position.

Draco shivered as the water ran over him, leaning against the cool cream marble while he thought.

He'd been delighted when he'd learned that the remaining seventh years would get separate suites with their own rooms due to the large influx of transfer students. He had looked forward to having his own space to shelter in, away from everyone else.

Of course, his perspective had changed when he'd learned that the suite mate he'd been randomly assigned was Granger. He almost wished that he'd drawn a Slytherin.

But they were now a few weeks into the semester, and after the initial snarls and a small incident where she'd come across one of his copies of Mayfair, the cohabitation had been going surprisingly well. The war seemed to have matured her, and rather than sniping at each other at every opportunity, the two merely glared. They said as little as possible to each other, ignoring one another as she sat curled up on her strange, round couch and he sat poised on the edge of his leather swivel chair, before stamping off to their respective rooms.

It had been far too good to last.

~*~

"Hermione!"

She turned and waited for him, grinning as he panted a little when he caught up with her.

"Caleb! What's up?"

The tall brunet blushed and tucked his hands into the pockets of his khakis, folding his shoulders in on himself.

"I just wanted to apologize..." he mumbled, his gaze caressing the floor.

Hermione's smile vanished.

"I just kinda freaked out, ya know?" His brown eyes briefly brushed hers. "I mean, he's a prefect, and it's his common room, too, and he c-could give me a detention if he wanted to, and he's kinda intimidating anyways, an' I just don't want you to be mad at me, ya know?"

"Oh...."

A pack of sixth-years made their way past them to the Great Hall, talking over each other about their post-breakfast plans. Only one boy among them followed along, listening quietyly. It was he who drew Hermione's eyes. He probably had a backbone.

She brought her attention back to her friend.

"So, what are you apologizing for again?" she asked.

His blush spread. Huh. She had thought that only Ron could turn his throat that color.

"Nevermind," he ran together the words, turning away as he said them. "Seeyalater."

Hermione didn't stop him from walking off.

She had more important things to do.