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Love is a fluid thing, more than a notion but less than a certainty.
It is a concept in Hermione’s periphery she thinks she might recognize but doesn’t dare strive for.
According to the dictionary, love is an intense feeling of deep affection, but where one wades from ever-growing feelings into the depths of measurable intensity, Hermione is not sure.
Is there a single spot in time when devotion deepens to bridge the divide between two people?
Is it a fixed point?
Or does it pass by without any notice?
How long before it floats just out of reach?
She wonders if it ebbs and flows like a river. Maybe it starts as a narrow stream while currents of emotion erode over time.
She wonders if every time Draco’s hands trace the bends of her body he is widening the pathway himself.
Hermione thinks that maybe there is no real line to define the before and the after of loving anyone. She thinks maybe now she is drifting somewhere near the center of the current without ever knowing she’s passed the starting point.
Hermione had loved Ron once, and she’d received the same in return. It was a young love, like splashing in the shallows and laughing until her cheeks hurt. It was cozy and comforting, a form of safety few would ever find. They’d loved each other in their own ways, and it might have been enough if she had never wanted for more than a sense of security would provide.
But love comes in many forms.
While she has never been here before—never quite like this, at least—she worries about the burden of past mistakes and what it would mean if she made another one. In these depths, she is likely to drown if left on her own, but she feels strangely safe in a way she’s never known.
If he is water, sliding along and wearing down the walls to her heart, she is lost to the whims of his will and stuck in the swell of emotion.
But while the words have never slipped off her tongue, she pours the intent into every reverent touch.
When does a stream become a river?
Where does that river meet an ocean?
Hermione traces the veins of water back to the very start of their second chance. Like a mirage, it seems close yet so far away. Too many twists and turns have grown between the past and the present.
She toys with the locket around her neck and looks at herself in the mirror. Mere months have passed, but the rush of her feelings has already pulled her under. Sometimes, when she looks at him, she thinks she can barely breathe. Maybe she has already drowned, maybe they are both saturated so deeply with this emotion that it flows through their veins.
Tonight, she resolves, swiping a line of gloss across her bottom lip and rolling them together until they shine. Tonight she will tell him. Tonight she will dive into the depths of her affection and hope he is there in the stream wading right along with her in the morning.