Pity The Living (Dramione)

6. The First Crack

The dungeon's air was thick with a chill that seemed to seep into Hermione's very bones. The walls lined with cold stone and unyielding shadows, offered little comfort.

Yet, the frigid silence was occasionally broken by the distant clinks of metal and the muffled footsteps of the Death Eaters patrolling the manor. Hermione's thoughts were a turbulent storm, grappling with the ever-present reality of her captivity.

It had been weeks since she'd last seen the sun, and the monotony of her confinement had begun to erode her sanity. But today, something was different. A faint sound—like a shifting of fabric or a quiet groan—caught her attention. Her senses, honed by desperation, made her sit up straighter, straining to hear.

The sound came again, this time closer. Hermione's eyes darted to the narrow slit of the cell's barred window, hoping to catch any sign of activity. But the room remained dark, save for the flickering light of the single torch mounted on the wall. The door to her cell creaked open with a slow, deliberate groan, and she saw Deimos Phobos step inside.

Deimos's presence was imposing, his dark robes sweeping behind him like a shadow. As he approached, he carried a tray of food—though it was sparse, more a token gesture than a proper meal. Hermione's stomach growled at the sight, a reminder of how long it had been since she'd had a full meal.

Without a word, Deimos set the tray down on the small table near the cell's bars. Hermione tried to gauge his mood, but his expression remained inscrutable. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, but there was something in his posture—something, that hinted at a deeper unease.

As he turned to leave, a clatter broke the silence. A small metal cup fell from the tray, rolling across the floor. Deimos's hand shot out to retrieve it, but his reaction was more than a reflex.

His whole demeanor shifted, a brief moment of tension flickering in his cold blue eyes. For a heartbeat, his hooded cowl shifted, and the dim light revealed a flash of his features.

Hermione's heart raced. The glimpse she caught was fleeting, but it was enough to spark a flicker of recognition—or at least curiosity. The vulnerability in Deimos's moment of clumsiness, however brief, was like a crack in an otherwise impenetrable facade.

Before Hermione could fully process what she had seen, Deimos's hand covered the slip of his hood, quickly shrouding his face once more. His composure was swiftly restored, and he straightened up, his face a mask of cold detachment. He picked up the cup with an air of practiced nonchalance and continued his task as though nothing had happened.

Hermione's mind raced. The fleeting glimpse she had of his eyes was enough to stir a whirlwind of questions. Who was he beneath the mask? What did that brief crack in his demeanor mean? Why did the sight of his face evoke such a profound reaction in her?

Deimos's departure was as silent as his entrance, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts. She stared at the food, her appetite gone, replaced by a gnawing obsession to uncover the identity of her mysterious jailer.

The incident had done more than reveal a crack in Deimos's facade; it had deepened Hermione's resolve. She now had a new goal—to unearth the truth about Deimos Phobos, no matter the cost. The mystery surrounding him was no longer just a matter of idle curiosity; a critical piece of her survival strategy.

As she sat in the darkness Hermione's mind was alight with possibilities. The first crack had been made, and she was determined to exploit it. The shadows of the dungeon seemed to grow darker, but within them, Hermione's resolve burned brighter than ever.