Ooh, my first angst fic! Everybody dance!
No. Not really.
Aaanyway, this is also my first HP fic. Everybody sing!
No. Not that either.
You could sing and dance, if you wanted to.
But I wouldn't reccomend it.
Ok, so this one is during HBP, and is Hermione-angst. It could be taken as Draco/Hermione, it could not be taken as Draco/Hermione. It's your choice.
On with the fic!
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Sometimes; when Lavender and Parvati have finally drifted off to sleep, and the whole castle is silent, and she feels that the tension surrounding the castle is suffocating her, Hermione cries. She sobs into her pillow, trying to muffle the sound of her agonizing gasps. She kneels on the bed, with her head pressed into the mattress, feeling that there is no pain worse than this, no pain worse that not knowing what is happening on that other side of these stone walls. Hermione cries in pain, and when Parvati pads over in her purple nightgown, she smiles weakly and explains.
"I was just having a nightmare," She tells her.
Hermione doesn't know that Parvati has been awake for the past ten minutes, and knows that this is not the sort of nightmare you get in your sleep.
Sometimes; when Ron is far too entwined with Lavender to be of any hindrance, and when Harry is chatting to Ginny, and when the whole common room doesn't bother to look over at the chair where the bookworm sits, Hermione cries. She cries like a young child, cries because it's unfair, everything is going wrong, more wrong than usual. She cries angry, bitter tears, and each tear speaks for itself, speaks about how angry she is, angry with Ron, angry with Harry, and angry, oh especially angry with Lavender. She clenches her fists into tight, frustrated fists, and pummels them against the back of the chair. Hermione cries in anger, and when Ron shuffles over, hair sticking up awkwardly and ears oddly red, she tosses her hair and looks away from him.
"It's none of your business," She informs him.
Hermione doesn't know that Ron has been watching her for weeks now, and knows that it's everything to do with him.
Sometimes; when Ron's owl has made a spectacular nose dive into the cornflakes, and when Seamus has just opened another letter demanding him to return home, and when Colin Creevey's Daily Prophet reads 'Eight More Dead', Hermione cries. Silent tears, like ice, glide down her face, and she bows her head, letting her hair cover her face. When she sees Professor Sprout call up a third year Hufflepuff and she already knows what for, Hermione cries frightened, trembling tears, that wonder how far away He is, how faraway he is from this little sanctuary. She remembers her own parents, back at home in their cosy little kitchen, and cries for them, for all the people who do not know how close danger is to them, to them all. Hermione cries in fear, and when Neville leans over, catching a glimpse of a tear-marred face, and asks what happens, she sighs and brushes her hair back.
"Just thinking of home," She smiles.
Hermione doesn't know that when Neville squeezes her shoulder comfortingly, he too is thinking of home, and praying the she doesn't think of it in the same way he does.
Sometimes; when the library is deathly silent, and when the rows of books seem to whisper hauntingly, and when Madam Prince's footsteps echo slowly around the room, Hermione cries. She cries desperate, hopeless tears, tears that beg answers, tears that want to know the point, tears that cannot see a way out. She cries for the people who have died, and who are dying, and who are going to die at the hands of this unspeakable, fearful terror. Hermione cries in desperation, and when Malfoy walks over, not looking concerned, but not unconcerned, without the trademark sneer, but more a sense of confusion on his pale face, Hermione discovers she can't be bothered anymore.
"Not feeling too happy Granger?" Malfoy asks, folding his arms.
"I….I was just…." And then something breaks, and she collapses on her knees and buries her head in her hands. And then she feels something, and she feels Malfoy put his arms around her shoulders, tentatively, and gently pats her head.
And then she cries in earnest, not in pain, or anger, or fear, or desperation, but in utter, utter confusion, and yet in gratitude, for this boy who comforts her, and yet she never thought he could feel.
Hermione doesn't know that sometimes, deep in the night, a blond, desperate young man cries…..