Regression
That was why on Saturday morning, as they laid tangled in her sheets, with the sun reflecting against Dracoâs hair, she finally felt free. Hermione had Apparated them to her flat following their reconciliation at the Archives, where Draco had then made good on his promises to do abashed things to her. He had kissed her, worshipped her, and held her late into the night until they were both sated and the allure of sleep became too much to ignore. When she walked him to her Floo to part ways, she felt an ache in her chest starting to form. Perhaps the sense of dread that came with seeing him go was fueled by the last month apart, pushing her to her limit, but regardless, when Draco ended their parting kiss, she felt raw. His grey eyes had bore into hers with such intensity that she felt as though he was peering into her soul. When he disappeared in a flash of green Hermione realised that the fear, the adrenaline, the rushâevery emotion she had tried to control over the course of the last several monthsâhad never consumed her like this when she had been with Ron. When she was younger, she had been certain that what she felt for her childhood friend was indeed love; it was the type that romance novels were written about. Oh, how wrong she had been. She stood, staring at her empty fireplace with a longing in her chest; she was faced with the truth of it all. For Hermione, falling in love was not the rapid sensation of a Wronski Feint or the potential fatality of swerving too late. No, for her falling in love with Draco Malfoy had been like falling asleep: slowly and then all at once.
