Hermione Granger is scared. The nightmares are frequent and sleep is rare. Her relationship with Ron is not what she thought it was. Stuck in a circle of despair she is trying hard to regain the famed Gryffindor courage while maintaining appearance...
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~ Draco Malfoy
Her shrunken form resembled that of the terrified hounds in the Manor's old house. He had sensed her immediately, thinking about something for stretched periods of time meant that the mind fixated on that only, and when confronted with it, every unit of being tilted in anticipation. Focusing upwards he had connected his visual image to the one trailing towards him, lost in sensation, that of the sunk witch, robes trailing and knees quivering making her way towards the stoop he reposed on.
And again she looked lost. Perplexed, his inner turmoil started to simmer again, why was she always injured? For his trained eye, and his experienced mind picked up on the shudder that ran down her thighs with every hesitant step she took. What was the Mudblood unto? He needed to know. Desperate to hide the strains of concern that disturbed him of his curiosity in her state, he forced himself to disguise it, convincing himself that he only needed to know because it could aid in his diabolical plan. Whatever she was doing was causing her distress, and that had to be the success for his plan, the witch did have a weakness and after years of failing to cause her any harm, it was essential he know the way to cause her to crumble. He would succeed. He had to. He could solve everything, his father would be free when the ministry fell and Potter would be destroyed. He remembered the camp of Death Eaters residing in his family home, remembered his mother, who turned more desperate as the winter approached.
Desperate...
The gears turned in his head as they had stood in silence. Her broken form hadn't pleased him. It was confusingly frustrating. He was so close to the top of the mountain, he could see the summit and it called him, but his feet wouldn't move. He had thought that hours spent at his aunt's mercy would wipe out any semblance of human feeling, any care. For he hadn't cared. Hadn't felt in forever, not even for his Slytherin brothers which had been a farce he had upheld, just like his whole life. As a young gun he had believed in his duty, an instrument of doom, but as the years rolled, the insanity of his life, the never-ending struggle had jaded his spirit until his soul resembled stone, hard and unfeeling.
Why did the Mudblood poke his form? It enraged him beyond belief, that her tainted being was the first thing in years to cause his mind to awake from its colloidal stupor.
"Please."
She had breathed. Every strand of hair on his forearms had pricked at her breath. He was hyperaware. Like a kid running through the manor's maze, waiting to be caught.
His turmoil boiled, as haze clouded his vision. He could use this. He just needed control, just need to stick to his concocted plan.
He assented and sat down, knowing that she would join him. Surprised that he was certain.
And sure enough, she had, the Mudblood had, angering him once again at how she hadn't hesitated. Was he not threatening at all, had he lost it all? When was he rendered so completely useless?
