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Hermione was thinking of home.

Or rather, Hogwarts. Home was where she felt most like herself. And so it was comforting to think of her old Head Girl's room in Gryffindor Tower and all the numerous nooks and crannies she had discovered over the years. Depending on her needs, she could hide away from the world or from boys, for an afternoon.

Hiding from her responsibilities was a little trickier, however. Those tended to follow her no matter where you went.

Another part of her brain was wide awake and paying attention. It noted that there was now warmth where there had been hardness and cold only moments before. The previous cold had as much of a sedating effect as the blow she had received to the back of her head. There was no pain however. It was there, but it was too far away to be a problem at the moment. She wanted to curl up into a little ball and wait the darkness out. Her body seemed to be on stand-by mode, conserving energy for when it would be more urgently needed.

Something…else was happening now.

Someone was holding her. She relaxed, if only because holding usually meant safety. Her cheek was pressed against cool, padded leather. There was a moment's pause as she was repositioned in someone's arms.

A man's arms. She could tell from the gait, from the way that she was hardly jostled as he moved. It was a quick, steady, place.

Memory returned. Every part of her transformed from boneless to tense.

Where am I?

Was it still the same day? Hermione trawled through her disjointed memory, eventually picking up the threads that made up the most recent event. She had been leaving her small flat on her way to work, dreading the day ahead of her at the Ministry. Yes, she remembered that quite clearly. It had been an entirely ordinary wet Wednesday morning, much like the Monday and Tuesday that came before. Grey and rainy.

Only, not entirely ordinary.

Her breath was a misty cloud as she exited the warmth of her old, apartment block. An elderly man dressed in an assortment of rags was slumped over beside a dumpster at the end of the street. She didn't live on what you would call a quiet street, but at six in the morning on a weekday, even London tended to be a little bleary eyed. The sun was up, but it wasn't making much of an effort in penetrating the smog as yet.

The man sounded unwell, and not the kind of unwell you got after a bottle of cheap paper bag sherry either. He wheezed and staggered along the rusted dumpster, finally collapsing to the damp ground in an unmoving heap.

"'lo there, are you alright?" Hermione called out.

No response. No movement. There was nothing left to do except approach. Sadly, London had its fair share of homeless and it seemed an almost genetic trait of the citizens to for the most part ignore their existence. But it was very cold now, dangerously so. The various charities and Missions tended to do their best to herd as many homeless as possible off the streets. A single bad choice in where you passed the night could easily result in a stiff, frost-covered corpse the following morning. The papers didn't even bother reporting them any more.

Slinging her heavy bag more firmly over her shoulder, Hermione walked briskly toward the fallen man. The sound of her boot heels echoed along the empty street. In the far distance, sirens wailed to and from other emergencies.

Hermione squatted beside the fallen man and touched him on the shoulder. He was very still. Without really thinking about it she had automatically braced herself for the smell that was likely to make her eyes water, but there seemed to be a distinct lack of eau de unwashed.

If only she had paid more attention to this particular detail.

The pulse point under his jaw felt strong. Even so, he remained insensate and unresponsive to her questions. She didn't attempt to move him seeing as he was already lying on his left side, in the foetal position.

The decision was easy to make. Reasonably healthy people who did not seem to be affected by alcohol did not simply fall unconscious into a stupor. Hermione quickly dug in her shoulder bag for the admittedly outdated mobile phone her mother insisted she carry around. Harry fondly called it 'the brick'. It was about as streamlined as a wombat, but hey, it worked and that was all Mrs. Granger cared about.

"Hang in there," she reassured the unconscious man, as she dialled for Emergency Services.

It was at this point that the man rolled over and gave her a smile that didn't look like it had lived on the street for very long at all. His clean, finger-gloved hands clamped down over her wrists. The phone was that plucked away and tossed.

"If you think it will help you," he said.

Hermione didn't bother wasting time on a gasp. The wand she kept in her coat pocket shouldn't have been too far away or too difficult to reach had this been a normal, Muggle attack. But it wasn't. Damn, damn, damn! If she had concentrated, and really, she was quite beyond that by that juncture, she would have also smelled the remnants of Floo powder on him.

The grin widened. "Gotcha, Mudblood bitch."

Predictably, someone else had appeared behind her and the point of a wand was roughly pressed to her back.

"You'll come along quietly now, won't you?" The question was rhetorical to the point of absurdity.

Other, more sinister threats were made to ensure her compliance. Hermione knew how it worked. This clearly wasn't an assassination attempt or she'd likely be dead.

She did not go along quietly. It was amazing what adrenaline could make you do. It gave you strength and a worrying lack of fear. It made you ignore the pain of a blinding slap to the face. It made you think of your letter-box keys and your heavy key ring as weapons. It made you not care about how grimy the ground was as you scrambled over it in your best, white wool coat to fight off your attackers.

In the end, her efforts had not been enough, because in the end she wasn't even eight stone, standing at an unimpressive one hundred and sixty centimetres. No amount of violent thrashing was going to throw three (God, there were three now?) large, armed men off of her. She hadn't noticed when the third assailant had appeared, but it was apparent that he had merely been a lookout who had been called upon to assist when her struggles began.

"Keep her quiet or knock her out, will you!" the newcomer hissed.

She was thus subdued with a swift punch to the abdomen. The breath fled from her body. No matter how hard she sucked in air, none seemed to enter her lungs.

As she fought to breathe, she allowed herself a few minutes of terror. The terror was normal. Wise even, because she knew what was to come and she wasn't sure how long she would hold up for before she gave up the Order's secrets. And if she wasn't eventually used as some sort of bait to lure Harry, then she would be killed.

That would be…expected. She was calm, all of a sudden. It wasn't exactly an acceptance of death. Rather, it was an acceptance that living the life she had chosen meant constant risk. Risk had apparently come to collect.

Perhaps there would be another chance to escape later? Best to make sure she wasn't too injured or too brain-addled to spot that opportunity should it arise.

And then everything went black

There was a dry rustling; a soft, light noise. Like hay carried across stone floor by a draft.

Hay? Yes, she could smell it. Old, dried stuff. Then there was the sound of a door opening. Not something as simple as your average bedroom door. There was a great deal of creaking handle and hinges that had never benefited from the lubricating qualities of WD40. There was cold and damp and then there was a stale warmth and absence of fresh air altogether.

Hermione catalogued these details. Details were important. If her captors assumed she was still out cold, perhaps she could buy some time and plan. Perhaps she could…

"Commendable attempt at feigning unconsciousness, Miss Granger," said a low, close voice. Close enough that she could feel warm breath stir the hair at her temple. She fought the urge to visibly cringe.

"We both know that you are very much awake."

Her eyes snapped open at that. There wasn't much light, but her pupils still dilated widely and for one, panicked moment, she was blinded. Her mouth was dry. She was lying back against something soft.

Oh, Good Lord. It was a bed.

Two things immediately occurred to her, both quite startling revelations. The first was that Lucius Malfoy was standing over her. The second thing was that she was very much naked. This second detail was made all the more horrendous precisely because of the first.

Now was not the time to go to pieces.

Begging and pleading had never been her forte, sincere or otherwise. It wouldn't work with people like the current lot of Death Eaters, anyway. They tended to act like they had more to lose than you did, which made them particularly dangerous.

She was still very stiff and recently acquired pains were beginning to make themselves known again. Her head felt like it was about to split open. The chafed skin around both wrists stung like chilblains. There were sore spots all over her body. Hermione tightly clutched the rough cloth that was partially covering her nudity and stared at Malfoy with undisguised malevolence.

Funny, he didn't exactly look like a lust-crazed maniac on the verge of rape. He stood over her, looking…annoyed, actually.

Hermione wasn't about to second-guess her apparent situation. If it looked bad, it generally was bad.

"How-" Malfoy began, and got no further.

Hermione lashed out. Kicking, bucking and twisting. She would have bitten him if he had been standing just a little bit closer. Through these violent struggles, Malfoy reacted by looking nonplussed.

That was until one artless kick resulted in her bare heel contacting with his groin. After this, he went back to looking rather angry again.

He grunted and with slow deliberation, caught both her ankles and dragged her back down to the foot of the bed. That simple movement rendered her terrifyingly helpless for a moment. Too, she lost hold of the ratty bit of sack cloth that had been protecting her bruised and battered modesty.

Hermione screamed. God help her, she hadn't any idea she could scream like that.

Her hands were free. It took her a moment to actually comprehend this fact. And then, with as much strength as she could muster, she hit him hard, across the face. The slap was resounding, causing her palm to burn. For her efforts, Malfoy's face whipped to the side. He turned back to face her slowly.

He's going to kill me now, she thought and her body tensed in anticipation. There was an odd sort of comfort in certain death. It seemed preferable at this point. The thought of being beaten enough to lose consciousness terrified her.

But he did not move. Nor did he say anything more to her.

The mattress was dank, lumpy and soft. Hermione sagged down in the middle of it, before surfacing once more and scrambling off to the edge. She grabbed the stale white sheet that covered the mattress and wrapped it around herself with numb, ice-cold fingers.

"You're not going to get away with this," she spat out. Unfortunately, her voice was still missing in action from all the previous screaming. What came out was a less impressive, "Yehh…"

Still, Malfoy did not move. Likely, he didn't think she was a threat enough to warrant restraining her. There was nowhere to run to and he was standing in front of the only means of escape in the room.

What the hell was he doing? Desperately, she scanned his face. He remained impassive, though she noted that there was a bright red mark blooming along his left cheek, roughly the size of her hand.

It appeared he was thinking. Not good.

Feeling was quickly returning to her extremities. Hermione didn't waste any more time. Her eyes scanned the remainder of the room. Wooden chair near the fire. Mouldy tapestry on the wall. Small table nearby with ceramic pitcher and bowl.

The pitcher…

Hermione darted toward the table on legs that were still unsteady. She snatched up the pitcher, which was half filled with water. The floor was like ice. Or maybe that was just her frozen, bare feet. She had never been so cold or so afraid in her life.

Malfoy started walking forward. Every step he took meant that he was walking further away from the exit.

"Come near me and I'll kill you!" There, some voice made it out of her mouth this time. Her hand was shaking so hard that water was sloshing over the rim of the chipped pitcher. She roughly shoved her long hair off of her face so she could see more clearly.

He continued advancing. Hermione couldn't even see his wand. The son of a bitch hadn't even bothered to take it out yet. It was bloody difficult not looking at the doorway and therefore being obvious about her intentions.

"Were you planning on throwing that?" he asked. The sound of him speaking so startled her that she nearly dropped the pitcher. His voice was low and languid. Utterly inappropriate for the situation. She could have hated him for that alone.

He was right, though. The pitcher was a joke. She choked back a sob.

Ah…well. Plan B, then. With this decision, the panic seemed to step outside of her, for a moment, to watch what happened next. She wasn't crying and for that, she was glad.

Hermione whipped the pitcher around and smashed it against the edge of the table. It broke under the handle, leaving rough, jagged points. She pressed what was left of the jug hard against her own neck, where the sharp edges of the broken pottery pierced her skin.

A tiny rivulet of blood pooled inside her collarbone.

The expression on his face changed, then. Though at that moment, Hermione wasn't receptive to noticing such details. If she had, she might have noted alarm, mingled with the most fleeting admiration.

"Stay away," she whispered. Damn it. She was crying now. She could barely see him though her streaming eyes.

Miraculously, the threat worked. Malfoy stopped in his tracks. He raised his black-gloved hands in an imploring gesture. A gesture designed to encourage accord. She remembered how he had looked the same way at Harry in the Hall of Prophecies. She also remembered very well what happened after.

"Miss Granger, I trust it need not come to that." His voice was still deceptively gentle. "Put it down."

She swallowed, feeling the sharp points dig deeper into her throat. Her grip on the handle was punishing. "Yes? And then what?"

Quite suddenly, he was beside her. How had he gotten so bloody close? She hadn't seen him move! Hermione tilted up her face to stare at him. He had darker eyes than his son. Not that she gave a toss, but they were darker, all the same. In her terror, those storm-grey eyes filled her vision.

She really did not want Lucius Malfoy's eyes to be the last thing she saw.

Hermione shut her eyes.

"And then you acknowledge that you are well and truly helpless and under my complete control." There was a self-assured, cat-like smile buried in that sentence.

The last, small remnant of stubborn, ridiculous hope disintegrated. She would not be held hostage or held for trade, or lure. They would not get Order secrets out of her. Other captured Aurors had made the decision when faced with no other option.

"Fuck you," she said, almost on a sigh. Mustering final bravado, she pushed the cut ceramic into her neck and slashed her throat open.

Or least that was the general idea.

The next thing she knew, she was holding aloft her empty, clenched fist and the broken pitcher was in even small pieces, on the floor. Malfoy crushed the pottery bits under a, tall-booted foot, grinding it to dust. The saucer went the same way.

Now, he looked impatient. "Yes, well. I think we've wasted enough time."

Hermione stared mutely at the remains of the pitcher. "No…" she whispered. There was no hope now. She crumpled inside herself.

Harry, don't listen to them. Whatever they tell you, don't come for me...

Seemingly satisfied that she wasn't likely to do herself serious injury, he strode to the door, produced his wand and murmured an incantation. The outline of the door glowed bright white briefly. He turned to her. There were no more options. No more cards to play. Fate took over. The dam broke. Pure nightmare terror flooded her veins.

Mutely, she blinked back at him.

"There is only going to be one way out of this predicament that we find ourselves in." He let that sink in for a moment. "I'm afraid you're going to have trust me."

"We?" she repeated.

"Your being here is a catalyst for disaster," he snapped. He looked furious now. "If I was in the mood to be utterly unsurprised, I'd inquire as to how you allowed yourself to be captured with such ridiculous ease."

She wasn't sure she was hearing him correctly. He was berating her for getting herself kidnapped?

"Miss Granger," he enunciated slowly, because she was obviously having difficulties. "I am going to help you."

"And you expect me to believe you?" she demanded, incredulous. His penetrating gaze was whittling away the few nerves she had left.

"I expect you to believe that I value my own life and that of my son, enough to avoid going to war over the death of one foolish girl!"

He was a nutter if he thought she was going to be so easily duped into trusting him. Lucius Malfoy was the Father of Lies.

Hermione shook her head at him, taking a step backwards. He was doing that thing again – coming closer without visibly walking. "You're a Death Eater." She hadn't meant to state the obvious, but it seemed he needed reminding of certain details.

"Yes," he agreed seriously, with a hint of sinister thrown in. He was close enough that her eyes were at a level with his mouth. "And this is a Dark Revel."

Hermione swallowed. Oh.

Her back met with cold, rough stone. Somehow, she had been walked backwards into the wall on the far side of the room. Malfoy was staring down at the sheet she was wearing like it was steel-plated armour with a faintly amused expression. He raised his wand and Hermione couldn't help but flinch. He wasn't touching any part of her, but his very presence crowded her.

The sheet transfigured into what looked like button-less pyjamas made from the same, shabby material. It was a simple, shapeless top and trouser combination. She was clothed. This simple detail improved her situation and outlook immeasurably, even if it only was superficial.

Hermione's mouth automatically formed the words 'thank you', for she was thankful, but she caught herself in time. It wasn't like he had added a pair of shoes as well. She was sure her feet were on the verge of frostbite. Her teeth hadn't stopped chattering since she had regained consciousness.

"Now, then," said Malfoy, with enough haughtier to further chill the air between them. "Have we proceeded to the part where you attempt to listen?"

What choice did she have? She was captured, one way or another. Strange how things seemed just a little bit brighter and jarring after you survived an attempted suicide. She had zero options as a prisoner of this seedy little room.

There had to be more hope outside the room, even if it did mean following Lucius Malfoy out of it (whom she trusted about as much as she trusted Crookshanks to be left alone with a saucer of fresh cream).

Malfoy's tall, black-robed form was standing at the door once more. He opened it very slowly, as if he were unsealing the casing off an incendiary device. A thin translucent veil formed around the doorway. Hermione thought it might be a spell to prevent the room's wards from detecting their leaving.

"Quickly."

Her heart pounding, she took several shaky steps towards him, before stopping to grasp the table for support. Her legs were still so pathetically weak. Helplessly, she raised her anxious gaze to Lucius.

Who rolled his eyes and without a word of warning, picked her up and carried her out the door in much the same manner he had brought her in.