![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
worksofstoneRating: T
Pairing: Dramione
Notes: Rough, rough drafts. Will get beta'd and britpicked later. Tattoos / Tattoing Square.
When they'd given her the name as of her new research partner, she'd scoffed. It'd been six years since the end of the war and seven years since she and Draco Malfoy had laid eyes on each other across anything a commonplace as a cauldron. She'd already had the letter of protest drafted by his first day of work. After one week, she'd gone home and Incendio'd it with more than a touch of shame.
Draco is a patient, methodical potion maker, always considerate of the consequences of an alteration to a recipe and mindful of the best practices of researchers who have come before; Hermione thinks that this side of him stands in stark contrast to the early decisions of his life. Things are different, these days. These days, he's also startlingly shy.
Sometimes Harry and Ron joke that she's a lab rat, that they have to rescue her from the research lab at wand-point, but she does get out. On weekends, Hermione gets kidnapped by Harry, Ron, Ginny and sometimes even Neville or Luna. She's gone to pick-up Quidditch games – watching safely on the side-lines, of course – on book-buying trips in Diagon Alley, tramped through the Forbidden Forest on herb gathering expeditions, and even participated in one wild Amsterdam weekend that still causes her and Ginny to look at each other and break out in giggles anytime the word 'pineapple' is mentioned.
Hermione has only seen Draco outside of the lab once; he was walking out of a Diagon Alley apothecary shop and either didn't see her hesitant wave or ignored it. She knows nothing about what he does with his time out of the lab, but knows all of his habits within these walls. They rarely need to speak, handing each other things with no more than a gesture or a glance. When they do talk, it's usually about theory or experimentation, in half-sentences that are finished by one another.
Hermione thinks that something about Draco got broken in the last days of the war, something that's beyond his or his family's ability to repair. She's feels it has to do with what's branded on his arm, hidden from sight by layers of wool and cotton cloth. He always wears long sleeves; Hermione is certain that his arm has rarely felt the sun.
He never mentions the war, and Hermione tries to do the same in return. Still, it's hard to carve out years from her life when she speaks, to keep in mind that somethings need to be kept absent. She's willing to do it, though, for him and the wary sort of trust that they've formed. If it is a trust, it's a fragile sort, as unlike as possible as the bond between her and her other friends. This one is defined by what's implied rather than what's loudly said.
Sometimes, Draco will roll up his sleeves. If it's late at night. And he's tired. And they're alone.
Hermione always knows before it happens. First, he'll wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. Then, he'll dart a glance in her direction. If she's not looking directly at him, he'll unbutton his shirtsleeves. The left and then the right. If she's still not looking his way, he'll carefully tuck his right sleeve up, revealing pale skin inch by inch. The left sleeve is always second, as if he wants to put off the moment a little longer. He works that sleeve back with precise folds, the same movements he uses when dicing Devil's Snare; it means that he's handling something he doesn't like to touch, but needs to all the same.
Hermione knows how his Mark must have looked, once. Black like fresh ink, blooming on parchment-pale skin. Spread across his arm like wildfire, burned in with Dark Magic like Voldemort wanted to burn non-wizards from the world. Sometimes the questions burn on her tongue, kept locked up behind her teeth only through a supreme effort will.
What did it feel like? Did it hurt? What did you think before it all became too much?
Hermione always averts her eyes. She'd initially glanced over once or twice, before figuring out that it makes him stop. But she's seen the Mark, afterward. After he's done. But for now, all she has is the sound of cloth on cloth; she can imagine what she'd see.
Was it everything you expected? Did he call you through it? Was it strong?
With the first fold, she'd see the curved shiny scar at the base of his left hand; he'd bumped into a cauldron as a child. If she brushed it with her hand, it would feel slightly slick to her touch. The second would reveal a gaping snake's mouth, head raised and ready to strike. If she ran her fingers over those dripping fangs, she'd be tracing the curve of faint blue veins, brushing against the dusting of pale hair that runs up hidden muscle and bone. The third fold would bare the unmistakable serpentine loops and skull that are still legally banned from public sight. Should her fingers travel that far, she'd be touching the solid curve of muscle, running her fingertips over that gaping skeletal jaw, pressing against the pulse that lies hidden just beyond the edge of cloth.
When did it start fading? Does it seem to have faded faster over time? Does it feel different to your touch?
When he's done, when there's no more sound of cloth sliding over flesh and woven thread, it's safe to look at him again. As long as she doesn't stare, as long as she meets his eyes, they'll work and speak as though the Mark isn't there. Still, it hovers ghost-like over the room.
Can I touch it?
All her questions are better left unvoiced, because Hermione's no fool. This trust between them is a fragile thing, and Hermione's not willing to test its strength.
Yet.
Pairing: Dramione
Notes: Rough, rough drafts. Will get beta'd and britpicked later. Tattoos / Tattoing Square.
When they'd given her the name as of her new research partner, she'd scoffed. It'd been six years since the end of the war and seven years since she and Draco Malfoy had laid eyes on each other across anything a commonplace as a cauldron. She'd already had the letter of protest drafted by his first day of work. After one week, she'd gone home and Incendio'd it with more than a touch of shame.
Draco is a patient, methodical potion maker, always considerate of the consequences of an alteration to a recipe and mindful of the best practices of researchers who have come before; Hermione thinks that this side of him stands in stark contrast to the early decisions of his life. Things are different, these days. These days, he's also startlingly shy.
Sometimes Harry and Ron joke that she's a lab rat, that they have to rescue her from the research lab at wand-point, but she does get out. On weekends, Hermione gets kidnapped by Harry, Ron, Ginny and sometimes even Neville or Luna. She's gone to pick-up Quidditch games – watching safely on the side-lines, of course – on book-buying trips in Diagon Alley, tramped through the Forbidden Forest on herb gathering expeditions, and even participated in one wild Amsterdam weekend that still causes her and Ginny to look at each other and break out in giggles anytime the word 'pineapple' is mentioned.
Hermione has only seen Draco outside of the lab once; he was walking out of a Diagon Alley apothecary shop and either didn't see her hesitant wave or ignored it. She knows nothing about what he does with his time out of the lab, but knows all of his habits within these walls. They rarely need to speak, handing each other things with no more than a gesture or a glance. When they do talk, it's usually about theory or experimentation, in half-sentences that are finished by one another.
Hermione thinks that something about Draco got broken in the last days of the war, something that's beyond his or his family's ability to repair. She's feels it has to do with what's branded on his arm, hidden from sight by layers of wool and cotton cloth. He always wears long sleeves; Hermione is certain that his arm has rarely felt the sun.
He never mentions the war, and Hermione tries to do the same in return. Still, it's hard to carve out years from her life when she speaks, to keep in mind that somethings need to be kept absent. She's willing to do it, though, for him and the wary sort of trust that they've formed. If it is a trust, it's a fragile sort, as unlike as possible as the bond between her and her other friends. This one is defined by what's implied rather than what's loudly said.
Sometimes, Draco will roll up his sleeves. If it's late at night. And he's tired. And they're alone.
Hermione always knows before it happens. First, he'll wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. Then, he'll dart a glance in her direction. If she's not looking directly at him, he'll unbutton his shirtsleeves. The left and then the right. If she's still not looking his way, he'll carefully tuck his right sleeve up, revealing pale skin inch by inch. The left sleeve is always second, as if he wants to put off the moment a little longer. He works that sleeve back with precise folds, the same movements he uses when dicing Devil's Snare; it means that he's handling something he doesn't like to touch, but needs to all the same.
Hermione knows how his Mark must have looked, once. Black like fresh ink, blooming on parchment-pale skin. Spread across his arm like wildfire, burned in with Dark Magic like Voldemort wanted to burn non-wizards from the world. Sometimes the questions burn on her tongue, kept locked up behind her teeth only through a supreme effort will.
What did it feel like? Did it hurt? What did you think before it all became too much?
Hermione always averts her eyes. She'd initially glanced over once or twice, before figuring out that it makes him stop. But she's seen the Mark, afterward. After he's done. But for now, all she has is the sound of cloth on cloth; she can imagine what she'd see.
Was it everything you expected? Did he call you through it? Was it strong?
With the first fold, she'd see the curved shiny scar at the base of his left hand; he'd bumped into a cauldron as a child. If she brushed it with her hand, it would feel slightly slick to her touch. The second would reveal a gaping snake's mouth, head raised and ready to strike. If she ran her fingers over those dripping fangs, she'd be tracing the curve of faint blue veins, brushing against the dusting of pale hair that runs up hidden muscle and bone. The third fold would bare the unmistakable serpentine loops and skull that are still legally banned from public sight. Should her fingers travel that far, she'd be touching the solid curve of muscle, running her fingertips over that gaping skeletal jaw, pressing against the pulse that lies hidden just beyond the edge of cloth.
When did it start fading? Does it seem to have faded faster over time? Does it feel different to your touch?
When he's done, when there's no more sound of cloth sliding over flesh and woven thread, it's safe to look at him again. As long as she doesn't stare, as long as she meets his eyes, they'll work and speak as though the Mark isn't there. Still, it hovers ghost-like over the room.
Can I touch it?
All her questions are better left unvoiced, because Hermione's no fool. This trust between them is a fragile thing, and Hermione's not willing to test its strength.
Yet.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-14 01:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-10-16 05:21 am (UTC)You totally nailed the idea that really appealed to me, that even though Draco's focused on hiding it, Hermione's a little obsessed with seeing it. :)