Hastily Drawn

by MD1016

Afterwards, all he would remember were the shapes in the lightning, like figures draw hastily in the blackest of inks; that, and Hermione's hand so cold beneath his, trembling as their fingers laced together in the dark. The dementor had been truly frightening, and had sucked all the wonder out of the moment. But afterwards Ron was mesmerized by her thumb tracing back and forth over the side of his hand, and by how soft her skin was, and how their fingers lingered even after the danger had passed.

At supper he'd purposely saved a seat for her beside him, and he'd placed his hand on the bench between them. But her hand didn't find its way back to his, and her gaze never quite lifted to his face. It was awkward, and it shouldn't have been. Ron didn't understand why she acted as if it hadn't happened. It wasn't like he'd held Harry's hand – Hermione was a girl, even if she was his best friend. And it had been she who'd whispered to him when the air was so cold he could see her words linger just outside her lips: "Don't let go."

And he thought, as he watched her eat her pudding, that maybe he'd dreamed the whole thing after all, because now the memory of her hand was little more than a sketch. And, now the feeling he'd held in his chest when he'd watched his own thumb play over hers was as flat as a black line drawn from the tip of a dull quill.

She should've look at him at supper, but she didn't. And he couldn't bring himself to take her hand again.