By the Way Chapter Fourteen

By the Way

By: Provocative Envy

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Author’s Note: Not surprisingly, this entire chapter is devoted to Hermione reflecting on her (impetuous?) actions of the previous chapter/night. Due to this, it’s relatively short. I tried to incorporate her sensible side while at the same time maintain some semblance of the highly-strung emotions I’ve rendered her capable of in this story. Since I suck at being objective in regards to my own writing, I can’t tell you if I succeeded. Oh, well.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

It was strange to wake up to a single regret; just the one. Disconcerting, really. After all, for so long I’d been second-guessing every word I’d spoken, every decision I’d made. It was almost a relief to glance at the warm body blanketing my own and think—my God. My God, Hermione, one mistake and look how far you’ve fallen.

Except I didn’t feel it. Like I’d fallen. I felt liberated and rebellious and different, deliciously so, as if in the amount of time it had taken him to relieve me of my clothes, my inhibitions, I’d become a different person, a braver person.

But then I rolled over and reality bore down on me in the form of a predawn mist, moisture settling on my hair, clinging to my eyelashes, whispering across my skin, waking me up—

And I was horrified.

Because I’d been swimming through my sleepy, hazy preclusions up until the moment I’d recognized his bright blond hair; because I’d been slowly, lazily, perusing my thoughts, my feelings, my self-worth, cognizant only of the fact that I’d done something wrong, something bad, but hadn’t realized the magnitude of it, oh no, hadn’t forced myself to wake up, wake up and take in that pale, beautiful skin, those precise, even features, the eyes that were shut but would surely open up and be as gray and fathomless and angry as ever.

Except they hadn’t been angry the previous night. I was sure of that. They’d been hesitant, yes, and maybe a little bit confused, but they’d burned into my own with understanding and compassion and need, as if his very existence depended upon whether or not I fell into his embrace: and it had been so long since I’d felt needed, so long since someone had looked at me without a veil of pity, or amusement, or scorn.

So very, very long.

But there was nothing that could justify my behavior. I knew that, I accepted that; I couldn’t make excuses for something that couldn’t ever be excused. I could never take back what I’d done, what I’d let him do, what had transpired on an otherwise nondescript patch of emerald green grass, close enough to the lake to be shrouded in fog, far enough from the castle to be considered illicit.

We fit, was the thing. Our legs were entwined on his jacket, our ankles together, his knee resting against my outer thigh; his body was cradling my own, though, his arms wrapped around my waist, his hands lying dormant on my stomach. He was so much bigger than me—my bare shoulders were pressed against the top of his rib cage, each of his deep, even breaths bringing us closer as his lungs expanded, then retracted.

I remembered, vividly, what it had felt like to be pressed against him when his breathing wasn’t so predictable, when he’d gasped for air just as often as I’d grasped for heaven: I didn’t think I’d ever forget.

Which was why I forced myself to slide out of his grasp, collect my clothes, and walk back to the castle.

This time, I didn’t look back.

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When I got back to my dormitory, I headed straight for the bathroom. I stripped, tossing my pajamas into the corner: they smelled like him and I wanted them off, away. I didn’t need to be contaminated by potent, pungent memories.

But then I was naked, and the door was locked, and the shower was running, and I stood frozen in front of the mirror, marveling at how nothing had changed, how no one—no one—would be able to tell anything exciting had happened to me, how no one—no one—would even guess that I’d done something unexpected, something daring, something stupid and selfish and scandalous.

My hair was still long and curly and boringly brown; my lips were still full and pink, perpetually turned down at the corners; my skin was still soft, my eyebrows still arched, my nose still sprinkled with freckles no one could see unless they were close enough to touch, close enough to kiss; I was still skinny, my body angular in all the wrong places, my hips barely flaring out before they hit the tops of my thighs.

I jumped into the shower before I could finish my visual perusal, letting the steaming hot water penetrate my every last pore as my thoughts drifted and wandered and settled.

For weeks and weeks I’d looked at my reflection with indifference: I hadn’t spared a thought for my lifeless eyes, my dispassionate gaze. I’d just run a brush through my hair, splashed some water on my face, and been done with it.

But something momentous had happened the night before. Something had fluttered to life inside of me, reminding me of everything I’d vowed to forget—hands and lips and silky smooth skin and some kind of blessed, wonderful delirium that lasted only for a second, less than a second, but made everything, every sacrifice, every bead of sweat, every ounce of exertion, worthwhile, meaningful, purposeful; that instant where everything comes together, in unison, in symmetry, where I was connected, in the most sensuous form of the word, to someone else. And then it would hold, miraculously, even as I waited for it to break apart, fall apart, blow up into a million, a billion, a trillion little pieces, slices of paradise, all of them.

I scrubbed at my skin until it was raw, red, my nerves tingling and my feet stuck together, over the drain, blocking the steady stream of water cascading down my body; I couldn’t stop watching white swirls of soap careen through the shallow puddles on the tile, couldn’t tear my eyes from the mounting suds. It was odd that something so easily blockaded, so thoughtlessly stopped, could be held accountable and responsible for keeping me clean. It was odd that no matter how much of it I used, I didn’t feel it working.

But I knew that even after I’d stepped out of the steam, wiped down the mirror, stared at my wet hair, my damp skin; I knew that even after I’d toweled off, put on fresh clothes, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair back: I wouldn’t feel clean.

Because all I’d have to do was close my eyes and remember.

I didn’t think I’d ever forget.

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