A/N: Sorry for the delay, real life got a tad hectic for a bit there, and then the FF site went wonky. But it's fixed, and I'm not so swamped so here's chapter 2. Thank you for all who followed, favorited and reviewed. You are all lovely and make my days brighter.
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Chapter 2
Hermione sighed in relief as Malfoy turned his face away but held her breath; waiting for him to launch into his standard mockery of her inferred cowardice as was his custom.
He surprised her by staying silent. By keeping his face averted. By giving her – tactfully – space to grieve. Though, if the sounds her ears heard were correct and the visual shaking of his body against the stone wall was to be trusted; he was doing his own grieving.
Moving to sit along the opposite wall from him, she sank down and allowed herself a moment to fall apart, to remove the hardened mask of the warrior and expose the crumbling structure of the nineteen year old girl underneath. There upon the dusty floorboards, she rested her back against the cool stone and gave into her grief.
Her sobs came on harsh but silent; a year spent on the run with Harry had taught her the effectiveness of silently screaming into her pillow or the silent shedding of tears without disturbance. Harry'd had enough on his plate to have her piling on her own; she'd done her best to hide her grief over the possible loss of her parents and the hurt and anger over Ron's defection.
Ron. Her heart tore open at the loss of her friend and confident; the one who'd kept her company when Harry'd been off on his own throughout the years. Despite the emotional merry-go-round from straddling the line of romantic interest and friendship they'd taken turns teasing the past two years; the bottom line always came down to him being one of her best friends. She'd miss him terribly, miss his humor and his exasperating ability to have her doubt herself by applying his own infuriatingly logical tactics.
She didn't know how long she cried; but after a while her sobs were nothing more than the husks of tears already shed.
As the sounds of the battle echoed around the two of them, huddled there in the cupboard, she began to pull herself together. She'd had her moment; now she needed to get back out there; they needed her out there. Wiping her eyes, she felt a couple of sniffles escape, their audible disturbance causing the blond to look over at her.
Their eyes met, and held; silently communicating years of unsaid words.
Despite his years of absolute repulsion by and of her, she'd found herself always slightly fascinated by him. Fascinated by how – despite being obviously pampered and adored – despite being able to buy his way into any future government position he desired had he kept his head down; he instead went out of his way to make enemies with Harry and overall being a little prejudiced shite. Thus making his own life that much harder, by outright antagonizing 'the figurehead' of the moral high ground...
She could acknowledge that he was smart, only second behind her in class; with his friend Nott trailing slightly behind. It frustrated her, as his intelligence conflicted directly with his obnoxious actions, and the contradictions baffled her as to his motivations.
His friend Nott – well now – there was a human who, despite holding all the same cards as Malfoy; did not go out of his way to belittle her or instigate fights with Harry and – her mind chocked back a sob – Ron. Even after fifth year, when his dad had been captured and named as one of the Death Eaters from the ministry battle; he'd kept his head and held his tongue, sliding under the radar of Harry's constantly directed hatred towards the Slytherin masses. Or namely, one in particular; Malfoy...
Even Zabini, with his coolly appraising and haughty eyes, had held a somewhat neutral position for the most part, only sporadically littering his pointed commentary with derogatory slurs and barbed taunts. During slug-club dinners, he'd kept his veiled comments and apparent disgust muted - and overall his verbal jabs lacked the true menace and vitriol that Mafoy's did. Almost as if he found the whole blood purity issue pedantic and a bit of a yawn rather than the hill to mount his flag like the rest of his peers.
No, she mused, still maintaining eye contact, Draco Malfoy had always fascinated her. Ever since second year when she realized the depth and extend of his hatred toward her, over something she couldn't control - something as mundane as her blood. To her logical brain it defied reason; that something invisible - DNA markers - would create such a pandemic of fear and disgust and hatred.
And that a boy of twelve could parrot it so resolutely and with that air of practiced confidence made her want to peel back his layers and find out why.
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Draco appraised the girl in front of him, thinking it was hard to believe she was one of the most talented witches he knew, based on her appearance. She had lost weight, off a frame that had already little to spare; and he winced at the thought of how the curse she'd taken at his aunt's hand would have affected her delicate bones.
Her face, the face that had haunted his dreams longer than before that infamous day at the Manor but for different reasons; was streaked with grime, fatigue and blood. She should have looked fragile, beaten, destitute. Instead, she wore her shattered impoverishment like a shawl, wrapping it around herself with pride. He could see in the lilt of her chin, the angle of her neck; she was far from beaten. Far from destroyed.
He was glad.
For so long he'd been blind to her abilities, to her strengths. Blinded by the haze of ingrained prejudices and indoctrinated beliefs. He'd thought her beneath him, dirty. That her magical talents were somehow falsified or twisted as a propaganda machine for Dumbledore war machine that were the kids he used as a shield.
How ironic that he'd come to realize, over the past two years, just how not beneath him she was. How he was glad she hadn't been tortured into insanity by his Aunt, or killed by the Dark Lord or even… his father. He shuddered. He couldn't believe Lucius was dead. It seemed surreal. For all his faults – and there were many – Lucius had been a good father. He'd done his best to protect him from his mistakes when his own blind idiotic ideals had them trapped. When their refuge had shattered and became the place of nightmares.
Looking at the proud defiant lion staring back at him, not even a flicker of fear or disgust in her mahogany eyes, he felt the strangest sense of protection surge through him. The desire to protect, not himself, but her.
He lifted his hand, reached it out and let it hang between them. He noticed her eyes travel down to where his hand hung in the air between them.
"I know I've been a prat, a prig, an overzealous bigot if we are using overly grand descriptors." She snorted and rolled her eyes at his understatement. "And," he continued, "You have every right to hex me into oblivion Granger, for suggesting what I'm about to."
She raised her eyebrow. He sighed.
"I propose a truce, my surrender if you will to your side, right here if you help testify in favor of my mother. I don't even care what happens to me after the war, I know many will be pleased to see me rot and hung out for the crows to feast on. All I care about now is her; my mother's safety. We can forge it by magic or by… blood." She drew in a sharp breath and stared at him incredulously. For a Malfoy to offer a blood oath, especially with a mudblood – her mind spat viciously – it was unheard of. What he was offering was as rare as a unicorn foul sighting. "But it will be unbreakable, whatever means we seal the oath."
His pleading on his mother's behalf was her undoing. Not knowing her own parents fate, to see him place his mother above his own needs and fears was honestly refreshing and shown a different light on him.
She nodded and she could swear she saw him deflate slightly at her acquiescence. Oddly enough, she didn't feel as if she was making a deal with the devil; but instead felt that she was helping patch together a broken hippogriff who'd had the misfortune of being born with fangs instead of wings.