-XXX-

Bright light forced her eyes open. Dawn was bursting into the room through a series of windows. She bolted upright and immediately felt the stretch of torn flesh roar in protest. Pushing back sheets she could see thin slashes running down her chest. Sectumsempra. She wasn't sure who had cursed her. But they hadn't had much strength behind it. She was still alive.

Still alive and no longer at Hogwarts. The room before her was entirely unfamiliar. Deep blue wallpaper lined the walls and the ceiling was lofted, stretching high above. Circular, it was furnished with a desk, a wardrobe, the narrow bed she was in now, two French blue winged-back armchairs that had seen better days, and a small table with two chairs. A fireplace dominated the space directly in front of the bed. A golden clock sat below a pastoral painting on the mantle. Everything seemed of an expensive quality if a little old. And there was a mustiness to the room.

Gingerly she pushed back the velvet duvet to examine herself thoroughly. She was sore, black and blue, but most of the major injuries had been tended to. The twisted ankle was no longer swollen. Her broken fingers on her left hand were healed entirely. The scars on her chest were in the process of closing – though whoever had treated her clearly knew the countercurse. Her skin was clean, hair no longer matted with the gunk from the Chamber of Secrets. She was dressed in a simple cotton nightgown.

Where was she? And who had been caring for her? How long had it been since – since -

Easing out of bed slowly she stumbled to the window, hoping for a better clue as to where she was. She was taken aback to realize that she must be in a rather tall structure, as the ground was far below. The setting before her was rural and covered in trees. But directly beneath her window was a carefully maintained garden surrounded by a stone wall. A fountain claimed the center. Hermione's eyes strained to make out the small white objects moving slowly below. Dread sank deep into her weary bones when she realized what they were.

Snow white peacocks.

Her horror was only increased, however, when the door set in the far wall opened slowly and Draco Malfoy stepped inside.

-XXX-

"You are awake," he said.

Hermione stayed rooted to where she stood before the window. The early morning light paired with her wild mane and white night shift gave her an angelic appearance. He blinked back the harsh light and stepped further into the room. She seemed to shrink back as he approached. Draco slowed.

"I know you are probably confused." Here he paused, expecting some kind of a Granger outburst. She didn't enjoy confusion, generally. Almost as much as she hated him. When she simply gazed back, face impassive, he continued. "I found you after – after the battle. Among the dead. I knew if they found you, they wouldn't offer you the chance to change your allegiance. You're a mud – a muggle-born. And friends with Potter."

He waited, expecting at least a question. Still, she said nothing. He went on.

"I smuggled you here. You're at Malfoy Manor. I know you don't have a reason to trust me, but you've been here three days. My personal house-elf has been seeing to your care. No one knows you are here. I –" Draco hesitated. He wanted to tell her why he had done this, what had motivated him to save her. Give her some explanation that made sense. It's the exact thing he'd been asking himself over the last three days. Why her?

For the first time since he entered the room, he thought he could see emotion play across her face. That question echoed in her eyes too.

"I couldn't leave you," he finally said hopelessly. "You probably think I wanted this, but you're wrong. I never wanted to see any of you dead. I grew up with you, Hermione. I may not have been part of the Harry Potter fan club, but I didn't want it to happen like this."

The girl before him hugged herself as he spoke, half-turning away to face the window. He could practically hear her shouting in his head. How did you expect it to go, you bloody git? You didn't see that this was always going to end with bloodshed on both sides? This story could not have gone any other way.

Lowering his head, Draco spoke. "That's a foolish thing to say. I'm sorry."

The young witch did not move. Her eyes appeared glazed as they stared ahead.

Draco moved near, positioning himself to stand next to her. She did not acknowledge him in the least.

They stood like that for a long time.

-XXX-

The last person she expected was her childhood bully. It felt like a cruel joke. Everything wasn't okay. She wasn't safe. She was a prisoner.

Draco moved into the room slowly, as though she were a wild creature he was trying not to scare off. Hermione wouldn't have bolted even if she'd seen a clear exit. She was frozen, staring at the blonde boy who looked more gaunt and pale than she ever remembered. Over the last year, he'd crossed over from boyish to manly, though it came with a hollow sort of look. He sported some five o'clock shadow and a general weariness that aged him immensely. His grey eyes bore into hers with a tentative expectation. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized he was speaking.

"I know you don't have a reason to trust me, but you've been here three days. My personal house-elf has been seeing to your care. No one knows you are here. I –"

Three days? Did that make it May fifth?

He waited for her to speak. Hermione could only stare. Why had he done this? Why had Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, and son to one of the most infamous Death Eaters, save a mudblood he'd despised? Not only was the notion itself strange, but he had likely done it at great risk to his own life. To be found sneaking a half-dead Order member away from the carnage, healing her, keeping her in his own home…there was no doubt he'd face punishment. Maybe even death.

He spoke again, an odd note of desperation coming out as he tried to explain himself. "I couldn't leave you. You probably think I wanted this, but you're wrong. I never wanted to see any of you dead. I grew up with you, Hermione. I may not have been part of the Harry Potter fan club, but I didn't want it to happen like this."

A dull throb struck her chest. If she had the energy, Hermione would have laughed in his stupid Slytherin face. But she couldn't summon her voice, let alone the will to explain just how foolish he'd been to think that there was any other ending to a story in which Voldemort won. Wrapping her arms around herself, she turned back to the window. After a tentative moment, Draco joined her.

He might have said something more, however, all Hermione could hear was the sound of her own blood moving through her veins and the tick tick tick of the golden clock on the mantle.

Together, they observed the peacocks strutting around the manicured grounds until Draco summoned an elf for tea. And thus began the first day of the rest of Hermione's life.

-XXX-

He didn't have a plan. Never had a plan beyond "keep her alive and safe." Now she was past Death's threshold and no one suspected that one of the Golden Trio survived the battle. So now what?

It wasn't as though he could Floo her to Madagascar. The networks were being watched. Brooms were too slow and he wasn't even sure she could apparate in the state she was in. And even if he could do side along he'd have to get her beyond the walls of the estate under the eyes of his parents and aunt. Then where would he take her? There are a few Order members that likely survived, but he would be the last person to know where they are hiding. It wasn't as though they were sending postcards.

Getting her out might be possible. But keeping her safe, in the long-term? Finding a place where she would be away from the chaos of the Dark Lord's reign would be near impossible. He wouldn't even know where to start.

It's not your responsibility, a small voice in the back of his head occasionally piped up. You got her out alive, that's more than enough.

Draco ignored the voice. He'd already the work of getting her to survive. It might be a sunken cost fallacy, but he wasn't about to allow his investment to go south simply because it would be a challenge. For now, she stayed.

Another smaller, slyer voice crept in sporadically. Selfish, selfish, it sang. You're keeping a mudblood in the attic to prove to yourself that you're not like them. When really, you're no better. She's not grateful. She'll never forget what you are.

This voice was usually drown out by the ingestions of a generous quantity of his father's favorite Scotch.

-XXX-

On May tenth her scars had faded to thin, silvery lines that run across her breast bone like spider web. They matched the ones Potter gave him in their sixth year. He'll never tell her as much. It's a strange, small comfort to know they have that in common.

She had still not spoken to him. He'd asked Meldy, too, and the elf confirms that she has also never heard the witch speak.

This troubled Draco. He'd sent the elf specifically because he thought she might tempt Hermione to speak, what with her house-elves rights nonsense. But the most Meldy could report was the occasionally vague smile. Hermione made no requests. She'd still be in that nightgown if it were not for the elf bringing her clothes from the wardrobe. She seemed to never suffer hunger, for she never asked. Draco quickly decided that instead of waiting for orders from the witch, Meldy was to bring three meals a day, plus tea. The elf would summon a bath every other day, empty the chamber pot regularly, and observe Hermione for any other needs. Anything unusual she would run by Draco. It was clear that Hermione was not yet capable to see to herself.

He brought her books. Every day he selected one or two from the library, hoping that it might spark something. For days they were just stacking up. Hermione's main interests seemed to be sleeping and staring out the window blankly.

"I've brought you a Herbology book," he offered the afternoon of June third. "I know it's not your favorite subject. But this one is really interesting, Has some chapters on the rare Amazonian orchids and their magical properties. There are some beautiful watercolors."

That earned him a rare glance. However, she quickly looked away. Holding back a sigh, he added the book to the pile on the mantle.

Draco was beginning to fear that she could not speak. That she'd been damaged in some way beyond his comprehension or she was so overcome with grief that it was nigh impossible. And if that were the case, he didn't know what he could do.

After Meldy left them to tea, he tried a new tactic.

"This was my great-aunt Dorothea's room," he said quietly as Hermione nibbled on a cucumber sandwich while staring numbly ahead at the pastoral painting on the mantle. In it the shepherdess was dancing with her sheep. "We're in the north tower. It's magicked to be bigger than it looks on the outside. It's quite out of the way. No one remembers it's up here, anyways. Not since Dorothea died."

Hermione's impassive expression was unchanged. He took that as an invitation to continue.

"She was only a little younger than us when the family caught her with a muggle boy while they were on holiday in Marseille. They immediately left France and thought the matter was settled. Dorothea started her seventh year at Hogwarts. Someone took it upon themselves to inform her parents that she was writing to that muggle boy and they planned to elope after graduation." Here he paused to examine her face. Still nothing. "They withdrew her from school immediately and locked her up here and quickly arranged a marriage with Trenton Rosier. A month before the wedding she killed herself. Poison. She bribed the house-elf to bring it to her."

This miserable tale had no effect on the witch. Draco went on.

"The room was sealed and the key misplaced. I found it, five years ago and tried every door in the house until I found this one. I used to come up here to think. It's peaceful."

When the Dark Lord had taken up residence at Malfoy Manor, Draco had not dared used the room. It was his and his alone, and nothing was secret with his lordship around.

"You're safe here."

But for how long?

-XXX—-

Meldy was a twist of the knife.

The elf herself was pleasant enough. She kept a safe boundary, did not make Hermione feel fussed over, was thoughtful but not overbearing. She seemed to be more on the Winky end of the spectrum rather than the Dobby side and appreciated her master. She did not say much, but it was clear that Draco was kind to her - well, as kind as a master could be to a slave. Hermione saw them interact nearly every day, and Draco spoke to the elf with a kind of indifferent respect that a well-bred wealthy person inherited upon birth.

Still, all of the evidence proving Draco to be a kind master wasn't enough to erase the fact that an enslaved elf was tending to her every need. It made Hermione ill.

Every day Meldy brought her three meals a day, plus tea. She laundered all of her clothes, changed the sheets once a week, and summoned a bath every other day. Hermione could offer nothing more than a smile, but it felt hollow in the face of something that grated on every fiber of her being.

-XXX—-

Every day was the same.

Wake. Eat. Look out the window. Read. Tea. Sleep.

Hermione felt like she was in a dream. Her injuries were long healed but she felt sluggish, subdued. She vaguely wondered if it was a symptom of the grief or if the room was charmed to make its occupants feel fuzzy. Now that she knew its history, she had to wonder.

Grief cloaked every moment. Had she been out in the world, focused on something, working towards a normal life, perhaps she might have shed it weight. But here, in this room, surrounded by the enemy, it suffocated her. She was living a sedentary life now; she felt restless and weary all at once.

In her sleep, she dreamed of the battle. Even then she was actively mourning. She saw her friend's faces, heard cries of anguish. Flashes of light against a storm-colored sky. Awoke to cries of her own.

She hated Draco. She lived for the moments he visited. She loathed his presence as the only person in her life. She wanted him here with her, always.

But mostly she just wanted to slip away.

-XXX—-

Two months after the battle she smiled for the first time in his presence.

Draco, who had spent the better part of his week dealing with bumbling idiots, was weary. He'd been assigned winning over his peers who were in Azkaban, convincing them to join with the Dark Lord. The number of pureblood British wizards were dwindling. Lord Voldemort's most pressing goal, after bringing order to the isle, was creating more witches and wizards to serve his needs. Having a good chunk of the child-bearing population in prison would not serve those ends, therefore, they needed to be convinced that alliance to the new world order would work out in their favor.

Getting there required Draco to work with a team of younger Death Eaters to strategize how best to persuade these ingrates of their benefits of surrendering. They may not be allowed to choose their partner, but the Dark Lord would ensure their safety and security. They would have a place in the future of the new wizarding world.

That particular day Draco had overseen the "convincing" of Susan Bones to a marriage with Adrian Pucey. It had not gone to plan, with Bones threatening through tears to kill herself and a reluctant Pucey hovering in the corner, aghast with her outburst. But still, Draco had seen worst matches make it through.

Bones was half-blooded, which was not ideal. But the Dark Lord was being more lenient than had been anticipated. Half-bloods, if there were of two magical parents, were acceptable. Those with a magical and non-magical parent were generally discarded unless they could prove themselves disgusted by their own heritage and magical enough. "Enough" was an arbitrary unit of measurement and it seemed only the Dark Lord could determine "enoughness."

This was his third session with Bones. He'd been sure after their last meeting that she wavering closer to their side. She'd met Pucey, he'd brought flowers and everything, the dope. Bones, who had spent the last five weeks since the battle in Azkaban, was taken with the gesture. But in the two weeks between sessions, something had changed her mind.

After nearly two hours, Bones finally signed the proper paperwork. She was weeping. Draco had no doubt that she would eventually try to take her own life, but with any hope, Pucey would keep an eye on her. Susan was pretty, and Draco remembered her to be kind and gentle in school. Pucey was not a bad fellow, either. With luck, they'd be something close to happy.

Draco didn't much believe in luck.

So he'd come home tired. He saw his mother, kissing her soft cheek and answering her question about his day. Lucius wasn't home. Being part of the Dark Lord's inner circle meant that one was rarely home by five for family dinner. After he'd spend the better part of an hour with Narcissa he slipped upstairs to Hermione.

Meldy met him at the door with a rock glass of his father's favorite scotch, sensing the tension in his shoulders. Across the room, Hermione sat on the windowsill engrossed in a large book.

Draco crossed the room, his heart lifting at the sight of the one good thing –

Promptly tripping on an ottoman and sloshing the amber alcohol all over himself.

Hermione's head snapped at the sound. At the sight of him drenched and sprawled on the floor, she gave the tiniest snort. Which turned into a reserved smile.

It was worth staining his favorite robes.

-XXX—-

When it felt like her strength was somewhat returned she attempted wandless magic. Something simple. Levitating a teacup.

But try as she might, the fine porcelain would not budge.

Hermione was still learning wandless magic. Over the last two years, she'd practiced diligently and could reliably move objects and do some minor transfigurations. Potions too, if she focused she could do the necessary incantations involved in the process. So it was troubling that she struggled to lift something as small as a teacup.

At first, she attributed it to her lack of strength. After the battle, her injuries, the trauma, it was perhaps too much to ask of herself. Wandless magic required a good deal of energy and focus, which is why only the powerful witches and wizards could master the skill. But as time went on she came to realize that it wasn't a lacking on her part.

One day while pacing the room, she noticed some carvings along the casing of the door. They were thin and faint, so it was no surprise she'd never noticed them before. Runes. Wards, possibly.

She dragged a chair over to get a better look, balancing carefully as her fingers traced the characters. They were wards. Antiapparation, which was no surprise. Sound-deadening too. And another, one that she was not familiar with. Hermione wracked her brain, trying to place the combination. She went to bed that night, the shape of the runes etched in her mind, churning as it tried to recall when the ward could be.

Around three in the morning, she woke with a start after a particularly violent dream. In it she was on a mist-covered field. Beyond the milky haze she could hear her friends screaming – Harry's hoarse cries, Ron's cursing, Ginny shrieking hysterically, Neville's low moan of pain. She ran towards the sounds, crashing into puddles of blood as she tried desperately to find them. Occasionally out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a figure in black and when she whipped 'round, wand at the ready, nothing happened. Her magic had failed her. That was when something struck her from behind and –

Her chest heaved against her white nightshirt, hands curling into the duvet, sweat coating her skin. A few steadying breaths relieved her pounding heart. She was in Malfoy Manor. She was safe.

Hermione's eyes went to the top rail above the room's singular door. She recognized the last combinations of runes. It was the ward to repress wandless magic.

-XXX—-

Rumors swirled around who had survived the final battle on the Order's side. Since the end of the battle, the notion that Potter was alive and hiding out had been whispered among those with a small flame of hope. Other names cropped up too – the Weasley twins, McGonagall, Shacklebolt. Some he knew had survived and were being kept in Azkaban, their name not released to the public. Others he knew to be dead; he had seen the bodies themselves.

One that persisted, strangely, was Longbottom's. He heard people swore that Neville Longbottom of all wizards had led a group out of the battle and to eastern Europe. More outlandish storytellers claimed he was taking refuge with other survivors at Durmstrang. These people had clearly never met the awkward and slow Longbottom Draco had attended school with.

Still, he wondered. There had been a number of missing students and teachers. He wasn't entirely sure who – the Dark Lord had decided the fewer who knew, the better. He had a few Aurors on it.

Hermione's name came up once or twice, but not nearly as often as Neville's or Potter's.

-XXX-

Summer passed. Then came autumn.

When fall came and she could see a fiery landscape out of her window, she wondered if there were students boarding the train to Hogwarts. Had they managed to open the school? Were they able to shop for supplies in Diagon Alley? Where would they get their wands, without Olivander's?

Life would go on, she supposed, even in the reign of the Dark Lord. It must.

In the nearly five months she'd spent in the north tower of Malfoy Manor she had yet to utter a word. It was something that clearly ground on Draco. Hermione wished that his irritation was the reason behind her silence.

Meldy began bringing her jumpers, thick warm woolen ones that itched slightly. Dinners turned to hearty stews. In the evenings the elf built a fire – something that at first frightened the witch, but her host assured her that despite the tower having a chimney, it was enchanted to hide any smoke. All of the fireplaces in the manor did so, as the sight of the smoke was unseemly to some ancestors several centuries ago.

Draco brought her cinnamon apple tea during their afternoon meetings, complete with a cinnamon stick. She didn't know how he knew it was her favorite thing to drink when the leaves changed colors.

-XXX-

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