Fic Title: Isolation
Rating/Warning(s): M for sexual situations
WIP?: Yes, but updated regularly.
Why This Must Be Read: This is the fic that has completely overtaken the entire Draco/Hermione fandom - and for good reason. My main feelings prompted by this story are ones of frustration - frustration with the actual books, because why couldn't this have happened. Bex-chan writes both Draco and Hermione in such a realistic fashion, and the evolution of their relationship is so organic and gradual and it just makes sense. If that doesn't convince you, it also has almost 3500 reviews, and it's been posted for less than a year. So GO READ IT.
"Well," she murmured with obvious reservations. "Do you remember when you first came here and you asked how I felt about you? And I said-
"You had a rant about how much you despised me," he finished impatiently, rolling his eyes. "Yes, so?"
"But I...I said just now that I didn't hate you," Hermione continued, fidgeting anxiously. "That hate was a strong word-
"Bloody hell," he growled through connected teeth. "This pointless memory exercise better have a point. Get on with it, Granger!"
"How do you feel about me now?" she asked in a staccato rush, unable to look at him. "I mean...do you still hate me?"
His eyes were a stormy mix of agitation and confusion that made her feel just that little bit more idiotic. The question seemed to ring in his ears and stir memories of his obsession with her showers, and the almost civil talks that they'd accidentally stumbled into as of late. Did he hate her? Yes, just not in the same way. He hated her now for confusing him and screwing with his predefined perceptions of her. He hated her because she had somehow become borderline tolerable, but he hated her most because she made him think; made him question himself.
"Do I hate you?" he repeated with a flawless patronising snarl. "More and more each day."
He didn't wait to witness her reaction and barged his way into his room, just managing to reach his bed before he collapsed with still-struggling muscles. He brought his hand up to his eyes and inspected it, one again acknowledging that Granger had done a decent job with fixing a wound. His skin was unblemished ivory again; but he would swear he could still feel an unnatural buzz across his wrist and palm.
It wasn't like the crawling sting from McGonagall's wards, but more...more like the pleasant remains of Granger's soothing fingers...
It was a ridiculous and dangerous notion, and he balled his fists and slammed them into the mattres with a revolted grunt.
He'd been wrong; this was what he loathed most about her. She was polluting him like a blissful virus, infecting him inch by inch; sense by sense. He went through the motions in his head, listing her invasion of his senses. First it had been her smell, closely followed by her shower sounds. And then his eyes had come to acknowledge that she wasn't the ugly Muggle-spawn she was supposed to be. And now, he could feel her; her touch across his skin and her essence still waltzing in his veins from the day on the bathroom floor.
That was four; smell, sound, sight and touch. What was the fifth?
Oh yes. Taste.