Hermione stared at him, Malfoy. Draco. This person who had to face another impossible choice. She wondered absently if he knew he was crying. The shock of his words had yet to subside. What had it taken, for this boy, this man, to break down in front of an enemy? Hermione never hated him like Harry or Ron did. Oh, disliked him, absolutely. She often found herself disgusted with him and his choices. She had never let her feelings deride into hatred, hatred lead to only evil.
She searched his eyes, triggering a ripcord pull of emotions. Hermione floated, swimming through the currents of confusion, sympathy, anger, fear, understanding, horror, acceptance.
"Oh."
She watched him, tears still welled in his eyes, his body still taking up as little space as possible.
"The Order won't leave me here."
The bitter, ancient laugh rumbled from Draco's chest. "You are dead Granger. Pot Head and Weasel saw you die, no one is coming."
Hermione jumped up, her hair springing around her face. "You are wrong! They would never leave me here."
Draco rose too, chest heaving, "You have been here over a week Granger! If they thought you were alive they would already have plans to get you in motion. The fact that the only face you've seen this week is mine proves that they are already mourning your existence! As far as anyone beyond this Manor is aware you are dead and if I don't torture you for information you will soon be as dead as everyone thinks you are!"
His face paled, the bruises bright against his skin. His features tightened as he caught Hermione staring. He turned to the door, hand on the knob before she could speak.
"What happened Draco?"
The quiet words stilled his movement.
"Not all fathers love and protect," with that Draco stepped into the hall.
Hermione rushed the door, jamming her fingers between the door and frame before it could close.
"If you are serious, if everyone who loves me thinks I am dead, I will help you. All I ask is that when the time comes to let me escape you turn the other way," Hermione rushed.
Draco refused to turn, questioning the air and hoping against hope that she would answer his question, "Why would you help me?"
"Because abuse is never the fault of the abused," She removed her fingers from the door, the magic snapping it closed, effectively cutting off the conversation.
Draco wandered the family library, fingers skimming spines, lost in thought. How could she mean that the beatings were not his fault? He was the family failure; Father never raised a hand to him when he did as told. Each time her words drifted through his train of thought it deposited another layer of anger. It had to be his fault, why else would Father beat him every time he came in second to Granger? Why else would he be expected to follow the path laid out for him?
His anger reached a peak and he nearly ran back to the room Granger resided. Throwing open the door he yelled, trusting the silencing spells to hold.
"It is always my fault! He only does this to me when I fail to rise to his expectations!"
Hermione had wedged herself onto the small ledge of the window, staring into the distance. She didn't flinch when he started yelling.
"How old were you when the beatings started?" came the quiet question.
Draco froze, his mind unwillingly flicking backwards to his earliest memory of his father.
"That doesn't matter," he shot back vehemently.
"I had a friend," Hermione began, never once turning from the window. "We could only have been about seven, maybe younger. My best friend in the whole world, her name was Sarah. Sarah would come and play, to spend the night, to go swimming with my family and always she had these bruises, deep, dark, painful bruises. I asked her about them once, she hit me. My best friend, who cried for the bullies, who couldn't play cops and robbers because it was too violent for her hit me straight across the face."
She took a deep breath, her shoulders quivering. "I talked to my parents about it then. Told them about the bruises, that Sarah hated spending time at home with her father, how she had hit me when I asked about it. I remember the look they shared before my mother called the police. They took Sarah away, and I never saw her again." She shifted, Draco catching sight of the tears. She continued, "I sobbed for days, I had made my best friend disappear. When I finally calmed down enough my parents explained to me about abuse. At seven years old I learned that some parents will hit their children, hit them so hard they break bones. I researched it then, hiding the books I borrowed from the library to understand why any parent would want to hurt their child. I learned that parents tell their children that it is their fault, 'I wouldn't hit you if you would just do as you're told.' I learned that abusers lie."
She laughed, the hollow sound echoing inside Draco, who had yet to move from the doorway. "Coward that I am, I avoided you after I saw the signs. Eleven years old and I couldn't bear to make another friend who would disappear. Then the hatred between you and the boys grew, your taunts and insults burying the knowledge I had of your abuse." She looked at him now, gaze piercing his soul. "I will help you Draco, as penance for my cowardice."
Draco backed out of the room, door slamming behind him as he vomited in the hallway, throat screaming from the motion. He stood, quaking before her door for a long time.