Well, you guys asked for it, so here you have it. A second chapter. Enjoy, and please comment!
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Chapter 2: Sickle For Your Thoughts
Draco could feel her gaze on him. He couldn't help himself, and turned ever so slightly, giving him a clear view of the table she shared with Neville Longbottom.
She was underlining something in Longbottom's potions book with her finger and had a look of exasperation on her face, as though trying to explain to him something that was ridiculously simple, and yet impossible for him to grasp.
She glanced up, and he quickly directed his gaze elsewhere, not wanting a repeat of the mirror incident.
When he deemed it safe to look back, she seemed to have given up on Neville and was now trying desperately to rescue their ruined potion.
As she leaned forward to add a few lacewing flies to the bubbling cauldron, her hair flopped over into her face. She brushed it back impatiently, momentarily exposing her neck.
Large, purpling bruises mottled the skin. Draco's right hand twitched involuntarily, sending a carefully measured vial of beetle eyes scattering across the floor. They fell like little hailstones, or tiny blackened tears.
He muttered a few spells, repairing the glass tube and restoring most of the beetle eyes.
He tried his best to ignore Lavender Brown's giggles and the derisive snorts of unrepressed laughter that came from Potter and the Weasel, but despite his efforts he felt hot blood tinge his cheeks a humiliating tone of pink.
Professor Snape stormed over to their side of the room and barked, "Ten points from Gryffindor!" He said nothing to Draco, but cast him a rather disdainful look, as though mocking him for being so bloody clumsy.
Steadying himself with a deep breath, he began chopping up a root of ginger with more ferocity than was needed.
He could still feel her heart beating under his fingers, still feel her eyes boring into him.
Nothing like this had ever happened to him before.
Sure, he may have thrown a few punches, or sent a hex or two flying in the direction of a Gryffindor with a particularly severe case of the holier-than-thou's, but nothing like this.
Despite all his talk, he really wasn't a violent person. He knew from experience that a few well-selected words could devastate someone far worse than a beating ever could.
The cold voice of his father sneered at him. "What does it matter? The mudblood deserves worse."
His conscience told him otherwise. What had he done?
Draco relived the events of the precious day in his mind.
He had fled the Great Hall, full of light and warmth and happy, chattering people, and found himself in the chilly dark of the bathrooms where only Moaning Myrtle's gloomy presence could be felt.
There - and even now he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, loathe to admit it - he had spent the better part of an hour crying.
Men didn't cry.
Especially Slytherin men.
Especially Slytherin men who belonged to the pure-blood, prestigious Malfoy family.
But someone had found this pure-blood son of Slytherin sobbing into a filthy sink in a dimly lit lavatory.
He heard a noise and lifted his head, expecting a ghost, or perhaps Mrs. Norris.
Instead, his gaze met Hermione Granger's, one of the very last people he wanted to see him in such a state.
He panicked.
He started walking towards her, expecting her to flee and leave him to his misery; she didn't move.
Not knowing what else to do, he had grabbed her by the throat, meaning only to scare her a little.
Only there was no fear in her eyes.
There was curiosity, and a great deal of pity. He did not like this. Not at all.
She had seen him weak and powerless. He would have been alright if she had laughed at him. But she pitied him. This he could not allow.
So, he let his anger, or perhaps his fear, get the best of him.
What right did she have to disturb his solace, when he had every reason to be where he was? Who did she think she was, to-
"Oh, bloody hell," he cursed. Lost in his thoughts, he had mistaken his index finger for a ginger root.
He grimaced and squeezed the maimed digit, watching a thick drop of blood trickle down, like a drop of wine, or a teardr- "Merlin," he thought, "does everything have to mock me?"
He was so ashamed of those simple drops of water. Liquid weakness, that's all they were.
After a whispered spell, he observed the skin weave itself back together and dropped his head into his hands.
What was wrong with him?
But that was a stupid question. He already knew exactly what was wrong with him. He also knew there was nothing he could do about it. He was doomed.
A small electric buzz ran up his arm as his watch informed him it was time to trudge off to another class with McGonagall and her endless preoccupation with turning something into something entirely different that it clearly wasn't meant to be.
Granger brushed past him and unbidden, a mixed feeling of guilt and anger washed over him.
With a deep sigh, he pushed himself up and made his way towards the dungeon door.
He doubted anyone would miss him anyway.