I Learned Your Pulse

"Hermione... what was... that?"

He could tell she had no answer. Her lips still tingled with the feeling of him on them, and her arms ached to hold him once more. She was biting her lip fiercely and looking down at her feet, one of which she swivelled uncertainly. "You needed something happy, and so I... kissed you. Oh, Merlin, I kissed you!"

And then she bolted.

She bolted away from the confused boy she'd left behind, away from the place of the traitorous act, away from the startled silver orbs that would gaze into hers and make her melt internally. She ran, and she had no idea where to - she passed portraits that were startled by her loud presence, passed classroom doors she'd been in and out of several times, even passed the other couple patrolling (Deam and Seamus) before her feet dug their heels into the floor and she skidded to a stop outside David's door, which stood slightly ajar. She opened it enough to allow her in, and entered, noticing how the snow's radiance bent as it went through the window, casting an iridescent white light over anything it touched. There were slants of this light everywhere, scattered amongst desks and chairs and flooring, even on his desk - but one ray of light found itself lying upon her face.

The more she looked, she realized it wasn't a mirror, and not really her face. For one, her hair was down today, not pulled back into a mass of a fuzzy ponytail; for another, she was wearing a red polo shirt, not a white button-down. But her eyes looked exactly like hers, and her skin had the same soft tone that came when she'd been in the sun lately and had just come inside. Her eyelashes were thicker, though, and slightly longer - her jaw was set, ready. This Hermione looked determined, not distraught. The Hermione in front of her was prepared for anything; the Hermione she was clearly hadn't been.

She drew closer to it slowly, her footsteps oddly quieted. Her portrait was framed in an easy, wooden frame, simple, with little leaves painted on each corner. She thought it looked perfect. Simple, not intricate, with a cute little detail that sweetened it - it was exactly what the girl in the picture looked like. Hermione reached out with one hand to touch it, an then brought it back to her side, not wanting to shatter the illusion.

"That's one of my best," said a voice from her right.

She turned quickly and saw David, his hair ruffled, his eyes looking where hers had just a moment ago; he was in an old t-shirt and striped pajama pants. "It's a remarkable likeness," he said.

Hermione smiled. "She's too pretty."

David sighed and shook his head. "She's not pretty enough. But then again, I shouldn't say that." his eyes turned onto her face, one half-way closed, ready to wink, and then he saw her pained expression. "What is it?"

She opened her mouth to answer, to lie, but no sound came out.

"Is it the second task?" he asked. "Did you find out? Is it bad -?"

"It's not the task," she said, her voice straining to be loud enough to hear, but he seemed to have no difficulty.

"What is it?" he asked, real concern flowing from his mouth as he moved across the room and put his hands gently on her shoulders, his eyes looking into hers.

"I... I... Well, I -" she couldn't think of how to explain it without telling him everything. "I -"

"Hermione," he muttered in exasperation, pulling her tightly into a hug.

Her resolve broke. Tears flowed freely, along with the tale. She told him. She told him everything. Every thought, every feeling, every second of what she'd done. About her breaking Malfoy's nose, about kissing him, about the lethifolds and how worried she was about them, about the first task and how awful it had been and how he'd been the one to get her through it, the second task and how anxious she was because she didn't know what it was yet and it was in a little under a month, about everything. She told her tale of woe to her teacher, her partner, her friend. All while her face was burried in his shoulder as he held her, murmuring soft, soothing words when she got too upset to be understood. Her face and his shirt shoulder were wet, very wet, and Hermione's throat was dry and scratchy. Even after she'd told him everything, he continued to hold her, to let her spill out all the insecurities that had flooded her system. He held her until it was impossible to see outside the window, unless you wanted to see white - the snow came down in one massive, never-ending sheet that coated the ground heavily, like the salt water from her eyes had covered her cheeks.