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
She had left Potions in a hurry. Her muffled steps, still loud enough thuds that carried her slouched body away from the foggy classroom, away from him.
Watching her attempt to brew the elixir assigned in potions was like watching a bat trapped in a sunlit room. It was painfully amusing. He had to stop himself from walking to her, stop himself from covering her hand with his, the shaking imperceptible except to his trained eye. He had been standing on the balls of his feet, on edge, something he now recognized was his body's default setting around her. Her presence demanded full attention and he hated himself for it.
Potions had never required much effort on his part. A subject that was perfectly suited for his aptitude, he had the hand and mindset needed to excel and he knew it. It bored him too, it was known and expected that he would excel in that study, and he had.
How tame...
Merlin knew he was a puppet, and he felt his heartstrings pull painfully at the thought. Self-disgust threatening to overcome the mild resistance he was losing. And so he had spent Potions looking at the Mudblood. Like he believed he had a choice in the matter.
She was muttering almost ferociously, her brow dripping with her sweat, hands shaking, body convulsing. Her eyes scanning the instructions feverishly, making sure her grade wouldn't be affected by her obvious discomfort in following simple instructions. He wondered if anyone else had noticed how much she had fallen. For the Mudblood had always been poor at Potions, clumsy and too anxious to produce the still hand required, but she had never messed up instructions. Which was something she did now? He knew because he watched her have to repeat steps to make sure she got her potion right. Sure, her grade might not have changed, but she had and it was a wonder no one else picked up on this.
How block-headed could people be? It amazed him.
What was bothering her? What was her secret, for she was hiding it? He knew it with the instinct of a seeker, milliseconds away from wrapping his digits around a speeding snitch. He knew, with an instinct that flowed in his veins, a base to his blood, that something was causing her deep-seated distress and all their meetings thus far had skirted the reason, the multitude of injuries she wore better than her disarrayed clothes, the tense body wracked with nerves. He understood inexplicably that in her state she would probably tell him, that he needed to just ask. Which frightened him beyond measure.
Why...?
He wanted to grab her, shake her up, why was she making it this easy? This was wrong, even he couldn't bring himself to take advantage of this pathetic state of compliance. He should have been thanking Salazar, but something about the whole ordeal made him want to sink his marble cool body into the fiery pits of lava.
Weak...
His treacherous mind whispered. The devil he couldn't shake. Perched on his shoulder whispering sweet nothings. Goading him at every turn. Enjoying his suffering, his doubt, playing with his control. This was what he was struggling to quieten, all the years of hard work unraveling and with it a mounting tide of self-disgust.
