She hadn't even been thinking about her mission. He'd touched her hair and told her she was lovely. He had seemed sad for her, and it had made her
If the alcohol hadn't made her so insecure, she probably would have had sex with him. She hadn't known that being touched by someone could feel meaningful like that. That hearing him groan and react to her touch would affect something deep inside of her.
Theoretically she understood sex and romantic relationships. But practically — personally — speaking, she found herself so beyond her depth she felt as though she'd been dropped down into a deep sea chasm.
There had never been time nor opportunity for any kind of relationship. Not when she'd been training abroad. Not when she came back. Most people her age didn't even have clearance to access her when she was working on research or potions, and visiting was carefully regulated in the hospital. By the time most patients were recovered enough to notice her, they were transferred out of her hospital to a convalescent ward or hospice house.
There simply had never been the time.
She had watched Ron and his cycle of partners and assumed that sex was impersonal. Just something comforting and physical. That it was easy to be with someone and then walk away and not care if they proceeded to find someone else the next day.
She'd thought, that if the step was ever taken with Malfoy, she'd be able to be indifferent. That it wouldn't have to be personal if she were simply rational enough. Lie back and think of England. Women had done that for hundreds of years.
She had been wrong.
Kissing Draco and being touched by him had felt like the most personal thing that had ever happened to her. It had awakened a longing somewhere deep inside of her; as she stood alone in the street, she found herself wishing to re-experience it.
It had felt sacred. It hadn't been something strategic or impersonal. It had been her reaching out and kissing someone who was interested in her. Who had felt kindred in loneliness. Someone who understood the dark world she had descended into. Who wasn't angry at her for wanting to win the war at any cost.
She wanted it to mean as much to him. The knowledge that it probably didn't fractured something inside of her. He was probably like Ron. It was probably just something physical.
The fact that it wouldn't — couldn't — be that way for her felt cruelly unjust. The fact that she still craved it anyway felt the worst of all.
She felt empty. She felt physically and emotionally betrayed by herself.
She never wanted to go near Draco again. She felt like seeing him would hurt every time.
Death Eater. Murderer. Spy. Target. Tool.
Yet she wanted him to touch her. To lace his fingers in her hair, slide his hands along her body, and feel him gasp against her lips as she kissed him back.
She'd never wanted such a thing before, and she didn't know how to ignore it now that it existed. She didn't know how to make it stop. It wasn't a longing in her mind that she could occlude.
It was somewhere deeper.
But it didn't matter. It didn't matter if she never wanted to see him again. It didn't matter how she felt. It had never mattered how she felt. The instructions remained the same: hold his interest, make him loyal.
She swallowed down the bitter aftertaste of the potion and her vomit and headed back to Grimmauld Place.
“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Ron said as she walked in the door.
He was in the sitting room with the insomniacs.
She stared at him, puzzled.
“What happened to your hair?” he asked.
She reached up and felt it all tangled around her.
“Brambles,” she lied promptly.
“You look like you lost a fight with a kneazle,” Ron said in a teasing tone.
Hermione nodded absently.
“I'd forgotten it was like that,” Ron added after staring at her for another minute. “It's pretty, the way you keep it braided now.”
Hermione smiled wanly at him and felt her jaw tremble faintly.
“Yes. It's best when I keep it back,” she said. “I hardly know what to do with it when it's like this now.”
She didn't want to talk to anyone. She especially didn't want to talk about her hair.
She hurried up the stairs to a bathroom and took a shower. She scrubbed herself violently, trying to wash away any physical memory of Draco's hands. The water was scalding, and she couldn't bring herself to turn it off. When she was done washing, she continued to stand there as the minutes rolled by; wasting time she didn't have.
She wasn't crying, she told herself. It was just the spray of the shower. It was just water on her face.
She barely toweled her hair off at all before quickly braiding it into two taut French braids which she coiled at the nape of her neck. Neat. Not a stray curl to be seen.
She was taking a potion inventory when Kingsley found her.
“Granger, you're needed at Shell Cottage,” he said.