Harry Potter Realisations

**Disclaimer:** Everything mentioned belongs to JK Rowling, I'm just borrowing them for a while.  
  
**Summary:** Hermione reflects on the things she has learned through her relationship with Draco.

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**Realisations**

She hadn't realised that long-held hatred could at some point turn to passion. He had been the thorn in her side for more than six years, the one who tormented her, resented her, and yes, hated her every bit as much as she hated him. Then one spiteful game of Quidditch had changed everything, and in the middle of thundering at him for putting her best friend in the hospital wing, she had been kissing him, rather than going with her first thought of hexing him into the next century. Then she had slapped him, and he had pushed her away from him, snarling that she was a filthy Mudblood. She didn't know how it had happened, if she had, she certainly wouldn't have let it happen again ... and again ... and again ...  
  
She hadn't realised that she could be wanted. When he touched her, when his lips slid over hers with such urgency that she almost couldn't breathe, she marvelled that she could inspire passion and hunger in him. She liked that she was the cause of this consuming drive. She liked that she could take him to the edge of desire, where he would take them both over, to a place where they were each other's entire world. And she wanted him every bit as much as he wanted her.  
  
She hadn't realised that she believed in love. She was, after all, the most practical person that she knew of, but at some point, what had been hatred, then passion, was somehow love. She would never forget the moment it had hit her, just how much she had come to care about him. When her friends, frustrated with things beyond their control, had been particularly vicious in their taunting of him, he had looked to her for the briefest of moments, before storming away. It had taken until she was lying in bed that night for her to realise that the dark shadow in his eyes had been pain, and only an instant to realise that she could not bear to be faced with that look from him again. What had followed had been a soul-searching reflection, where she had come to the conclusion that he had become more important to her than she had ever dreamed he could.  
  
She hadn't realised that he knew how to love. She had been too distracted by what he wanted everyone to believe about him, what she had wanted to believe about him. She told herself that the way his eyes sometimes softened as they gazed her was a trick of the light, that the hushed words, the lingering touches, the small, gone-too-soon smiles were a part of his game, something he did with every girl. She couldn't brush away his anger, though, his jealousy. When he had ranted at her, raved, stormed up and down the empty transfiguration classroom, demanding to know what she was playing at. Surprising them both by booming at her that he loved her.  
  
She hadn't realised that she could be beautiful. When he looked her, she would feel special, like she was the only woman in the world who could hold his attention. He was unashamed in his adoration; his eyes would trace the features of her face, a hungry light flickering in their grey depths. His hands would follow the same path as his eyes with a gentle reverence as they glided softly over her skin.  
  
She hadn't realised that secrets could be so thrilling. For the first time in a long time, she found herself keeping secrets from her friends, not wanting to share anything that was so new and precious. Even if she wanted to, how could she accurately describe the excitement that curled in her stomach as she felt his hand grasp hers, haul her into a darkened room where at times he was merely content to hold her, while at other times their passion sent them reeling, and there was a very real risk that they would be found out. She would never be able to explain how the flash of his eyes, and the smirk that tilted the corner of his mouth could send her heart into dizzying somersaults from across the room. She didn't want to tell anyone how she felt when he said her name, when it was just the two of them, as if she were the only thing that mattered to him, more vital than breathing.  
  
She hadn't realised that something as simple as his skin on hers could be so incredible. In the afterglow of love, when her heart rate had slowed and her breathing resumed it's normal rhythm she would cling to him, warm in his arms as they dozed peacefully. His flesh was reassuringly firm against hers, his heart beating a steady tattoo against her cheek. As her eyes drifted closed, his chest would rise and fall as he sighed her name.  
  
She hadn't realised how powerful a lingering scent could be, not until she had been surrounded by him. He pretended that he didn't know that she slept in the shirt she had stolen from him after their first night together. As she lay in bed in that happy place between wakefulness and sleep, she could snuggle into the soft cotton folds of his shirt and revisit his faint, musky scent. It was calming, reassuring. She knew that it was probably her imagination, the shirt had been washed that many times that any trace of him would be long gone, but it was connection that she needed when she was alone in her dorm.  
  
She hadn't realised that a person's eyes would say more to her than words ever could. His stormy grey eyes would find hers from across the great hall, over the top of a steaming cauldron, from high above the Quidditch pitch, and she would instantly feel their power. They could shine with love and desire, with pain, with hope and with a teasing playfulness that could melt her on the spot. There was arrogance with a casual flick, hunger in an intense flash, anger in furious tides, and love in a slow, warm glow. She could devote a lifetime to the subtle language of his eyes, but she would never get enough of the way they crinkled in the corners when he smiled at her.  
  
She hadn't realised that she liked the smell of Quidditch on a person. When he had pounced on her, sweaty and dishevelled from Quidditch practice, her first instinct had been to recoil. He had drawn her protesting form against his warm, sweat-drenched self, and as his lips claimed hers, her hands had tangled in his damp hair, and her nose had filled with the smell of fresh perspiration, grass and spring sunshine, mingled with the steady, familiar smell of his favoured shampoo. It was an experience that was so uniquely him that she found herself craving damp Quidditch kisses.  
  
She hadn't realised that Mudblood could be a term of endearment. She remembered a time when hearing him say it was enough to fluster her, now hearing the word pass his lips made her smile. She would hear him say it to her as they passed in the halls, as much a show for his friends as it was his way of acknowledging her. He would say it to her, too, when they were alone, when he was teasing her about anything and everything, when he played pretend that it still mattered to him. She actually liked the reassurance of it, that he didn't believe these things any more, that they were so unimportant to him that he could joke about it. She liked it even more when it was followed up with his almost apologetic demonstrations of affection.  
  
She hadn't realised that she was more than the plain-faced girl that looked out at her from the mirror. She was after all, just that, plain, prim and proper; smart and loyal, but nothing special. Until he told her. His every touch, every whisper told her she was beautiful, from his long graceful fingers tangled in her hair, to the brush of his lips on the tip of her nose, to the reverent whisper against her ear. The girl that looked out at her from the mirror now glowed, radiant with love and knowledge.  
  
She hadn't realised that she could have the fairy tale of 'happily ever after'. The uncertainty of their last year at school, the enmity between him and her friends, his impossible family situation, had all combined to make a future for them as difficult as possible. She had learned to be content in the moment, to take his smile as promise enough. Until their last day of school, as she had unloaded her luggage from the train, bracing herself for the eminent arrival of her parents. She had straightened, brushing her hands on her jeans, then had turned to collide with him. For moment she had hated every smug line on his face, because she knew, just _knew_, that he was going to say goodbye to her. As her mouth had opened in demand, he had grinned, slid his hands up to cup her face, and swooped down to claim her lips. All she had been able to do was squeak, whether in acquiescence or protest, she didn't know. And in front of an entire platform of people, including her parents, and her stunned friends, he had made a new promise to her.

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**Author's Note:** At the same time as I was writing this I was working on a similar story from Draco's perspective, hopefully I'll have it finished and posted soon!


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Harry Potter, Romance