Secrets and Masks

15. Ready to die?

TW; graphic depictions of gore and blood

5th February;

Hermione wasn't sorry for what she did. Not in the slightest.

She wasn't sorry that she'd somehow - by some unexpected miracle, a happy fucking accident - managed to get into his head, or for the memories she'd intruded on. Why should she be? It was no different than what he'd been doing to her for months. No worse or crueller than anything he'd done to her a hundred times over.

The small dent to his pride wasn't nearly punishment enough to atone for the things he'd done. It wouldn't even come close to wiping the blood clean from his ledger, but it was a start. It was proof that she could hurt him, she just needed to bide her time and wait for another opportunity. He deserved to be punished. She wanted to break him, to give him a taste of his own medicine.

So why did she feel so guilty every time she saw him now? Why did pity swell in her chest every time she heard his voice? Why was it that every time he cast the 'Legilimency' spell - the only word he'd spoken to her since her intrusion - that the sound of his choked, strangled sob rang between her ears?

She'd been right; his broken voice had buried itself into her head. The quiet little whimper that had slipped past his quivering lips was scratching inside of skull.

Malfoy had been different with her since the day of 'the incident'. He was much colder than when she'd first been captured - if that were even possible. He didn't try to tease her anymore, and he didn't rile her up before he barged into her head. He wouldn't even look at her. He was distant and detached, searched her mind wordlessly and watched her memories unfold without giving her so much as a sideways glance.

In a way, Hermione was thrilled that he couldn't seem to bring himself to look at her, because it meant she had won. She'd gotten to him. She'd wounded him. It was a small win, but a win nonetheless.

The few times he was forced to look at her, in those fleeting, necessary moments he looked into her eyes right before he forced himself into her mind, his eyes were dead. Emotionless. His Occlumency crafted into a protective wall around him. Strong and impenetrable.

No, Hermione wasn't sorry for what she'd done, she was just sorry for the things she'd seen.

She hated that every time she looked at him and saw the wall of Occlumency in his eyes, all she could think about were shards of glass and his mother's body, lying broken in his arms. She hated that every time she watched him escort Astoria around the estate, all she could see was the protective way he'd wrapped his arms around her, how he'd trembled as he'd held her up, whispering promises to keep her safe in a broken and frightened voice.

Hermione regretted the hurt and pain and heartbreak she'd seen in his eyes and wished she could fucking erase it - because it was all she saw when she looked at him now. And they made him appear warmer, more alive, and they were making it harder and harder for Hermione to remember the demon he really was.

18th February

A week without Malfoy was bliss. Absolute fucking bliss.

It felt as though she'd been on the verge of drowning since her arrival, and his absence had finally allowed her to break the surface and take that first glorious lungful of air. Her head felt much better, and the lack of haemorrhaging and blood loss meant her strength had steadily begun to return, and she found she had no use for Pepperup potions by the third day of his leave.

Malfoy upped the dosage of the anti-magic potion; two shots a day, morning and night. Hermione wasn't surprised, she'd expected him to after she'd wandered into his memories, even if it was an accident. Malfoy was many things, but stupid wasn't one of them. He'd probably figured that out she'd developed a tolerance for the potions the same moment she had, and would probably up the dosage again in a month or two.