Hermione assumed she was having nightmares.
This seemed to be a fairly valid assumption as she woke up tangled in her sheets, staring into the yellow eyes of the worried house elf. Her body hurt worse than when she had fallen asleep, and she could smell the faint smell of something burning. For a moment she thought she saw another figure in the room and looked to Malfoy's potions desk, but no one was there.
"Another seizure, miss," Zilly said, tipping her head back and pouring a potion down her throat. Her head felt foggy, almost as if she was watching her own body through someone else's eyes.
"Wha-?" Hermione began, but the elf had shushed her, and she quickly fell back into the darkness.
The next time she woke it was morning. This time it wasn't the noise of Zilly; instead, she woke to the metallic clang of a ladle against a cauldron. Before she even opened her eyes, she knew that Malfoy was brewing something at his potions desk.
Hermione kept her eyes closed, able to sense the light from under her heavy lids as she slowly tested her body beneath the covers. She was sore in more places than she had been going to bed last night. The night before, she had felt strong enough to pull the nightgown she now wore over her head alone, and today she wondered if rolling over to look at Malfoy would sap all of her strength for the rest of the day. It felt not unlike waking up after a prolonged basilisk-induced sleep.
Her eyes were still shut, but she could hear Malfoy mutter something under his breath and the sound of a quill scratching against a parchment. The potion sizzled slightly, the viscous substance hitting the sides of the cauldron, and a faint lavender scent reached her nose.
She inhaled deeply, turning her head towards the bench before slowly opening her eyes. From what she could tell, Malfoy hadn't noticed she was awake yet, still engrossed in the brew that he was hovering over. Hermione spent a moment taking him in without his piercing eyes zeroed in on her.
Every time she looked at him, she couldn't help but be taken aback. His back was less broad than it had been during their time at Hogwarts, and he moved stiffly. His blond hair was still shiny, but it hung more limply than she had seen it before. She knew that if he turned around his face would be drawn, sharp and aristocratic, but too hollow.
Hermione watched as Malfoy leaned backwards, away from the potion, to take a seat on the small stool. Even at rest he wasn't relaxed, his hand coming up to ruffle his hair almost immediately. Her mind immediately thought of Harry and Ron and her heart clenched.
There was a moment where she felt sorry for Malfoy. Seeing him hunched over a potion in too-large robes with his head in his hand tugged at her heartstrings, and she knew that if it was Harry, she would have already had her arms around him; she would have pressed her face into his back until he finally fell apart in her arms. If it was Ron she would have slid into his arms and dragged his heavy hands over her shoulders until he finally held her and buried his face into her hair.
But this was neither Harry nor Ron.
She cursed herself for having to continually remind herself of where she was. She knew Draco Malfoy, and yet for some reason this situation seemed to sap that knowledge from her. Like the night before, she had been too comfortable, too at ease, laughing with Theodore Nott. It was hard to create separation when it was her classmates – her peers – who were doing the killing.
While she had never known him well, seeing the Dark Mark on Theodore Nott had been a shock she had been unprepared for. Theodore had been in study groups with her, taking the time to lightly tease the other members, never going too far. He had been in her prefect meetings; he had once filled in for Ernie to do prefect rounds with her. He was a Slug Club member, for Circe's sake. Theodore Nott always seemed to be the better part of Slytherin House, the smarts sans the evil.
Draco Malfoy had always been a given – he had always been loud about his beliefs in blood purity. He had always been a bully; while she had defended him to Harry, it hadn't been too big a shock when it was him – of course it was Malfoy the whispers had said – who led the campaign of Death Eaters into Hogwarts.
But she remained confused. She couldn't understand the books and the trays of food. Getting into a comfortable bed after a luxurious bath felt like she was betraying her friends, who were likely camped out in some woods, scavenging for food. Every small consideration felt like a stab in her gut.
It could be an intentional tactic, she reminded herself. Get her to let her guard down before ransacking her brain. Allow her body to heal just enough before putting it through some new torture.
Her eyes welled at the thought, and she pushed her fist into her mouth to stifle the watery intake of breath, but it was too late. Malfoy had already heard.
He was turning to face her, his face hard, just as she had predicted.
"I trust that you can remain silent for the day?" he asked, his voice detached, but not unkind.
Hermione nodded curtly. Through the mask, Malfoy sneered in response.
"Do you need another book, or are these enough?" he taunted, waving his hand at the stack of tomes that she had assembled on her nightstand the night before.
"S'enough." She refused to give him the satisfaction of engaging her further.
"I'm sure Zilly will be up with your breakfast tray soon," was all he said before giving her a hard look and turning back to his potions desk.
Hermione waited for him to say something else, something biting that would give her some anger to hold on to for the day, but Malfoy was silent, now focused on chopping some ingredient. She watched his fingers for a moment – something that was incredibly reminiscent of her time at Hogwarts.
She felt that little prickle in her chest, wanting to say something to make Malfoy bring his attention back to her. But, not wanting to be the one who started another engagement Hermione grabbed the top book – a fancier reprint of Karuzos' New Theory of Numerology – and began to read silently.
If she was being honest, Hermione was surprised that Malfoy managed to stay silent for as long as he did. She was still working to reconcile her boisterous classmate with the stoic man she had been forced to interact with in her prison and she kept waiting for him to turn around and taunt her about anything – her blood status, her hair… but there was nothing.
Zilly had brought a tray of tea and oatmeal, and while Malfoy had glanced backwards twice – once at Zilly's initial appearance and a second time to look at the tray to make sure it was partially empty before the elf removed it – he said nothing through the morning.
Occasionally their eyes would meet in the mirror over the foot of the bed, and Malfoy would look back to his desk. Hermione could feel her eyes dart away, embarrassed, but Malfoy made slower movements, his eyes staying fixed on her for just a moment too long. Hermione would return to her book.
Lunch passed in a silence similar to breakfast, and it wasn't until the afternoon that Malfoy locked his bench, dipped his head, and retreated from the room.
All of it without a word to Hermione. She didn't see him for the rest of the day.
And then, she didn't see Malfoy for the next four days.
Instead, she finished the first book and started another, focused on her mantra of: For Harry For Ron For Harry For Ron, hoping to find something in some newer editions that would help in any way she could imagine. She read into the evenings, took her dinner and then a bath before crawling back into the large bed, a book in hand.
She poured through volumes, knowing that she would find nothing new or helpful among the books in her prison. She had even spent time in the old textbooks, where instead of her name "Draconis Lucius Malfoy" was stamped into the inside of every cover. She had found old scribbles, additional potions instructions, and the mnemonics he used to memorize the Goblin Rebellions (not dissimilar to hers, he had also used the minister's names – Boot, Flack, and Gore – to spell out the important Goblins). She had found class notes, doodles of Harry falling of his broom that sent her into a crying spell, and an early draft of "Weasley is Our King" with a much worse rhyme scheme than the final version.
Even with those small reminders of where she was, it was hard not to feel grateful at the meals and warm bath and books. When Zilly gave her a pain potion when she grimaced, she almost praised the Malfoy name, settling instead at giving the elf a small smile. She had even begun to feel comfortable curling up in the massive bed, able to recognize the harmless shapes in the room even under the cover of darkness.
There were moments of distrust, of course. She had thrown her comb at the mirror in a fit of unexplained rage. Zilly had appeared too quickly, sending her into a panicked mess on the floor. She had spent countless hours trying the two locked doors and picking at the window lock until her fingers bled. She had tugged at the anklet until her ankle was red and raw; until each time the torn flesh made contact with the metal, she had winced at the stinging pain.
No matter the comfort, she was still a prisoner.
She took to reading and re-reading a small blue book from next to Malfoy's desk – Closing Consciousness: A Beginners Guide to a Guarded Mind, attempting to internalize every word. Hermione spent hours sitting in the giant bed, working to silence her thoughts. She built boxes in her mind; mentally folding the cardboard the same way her father had the first time they had moved homes. She did the meditations, breathing quietly as she tried to find the still and calm that the book described.
She was not a fool, she knew that her mind was likely why she had been kept alive, and she would go to her grave protecting the secrets it held. If too much got out – if Voldemort knew how much they knew – she had no doubt that he would have the advantage to crush whatever rebellions sprung up against him.
It was only Voldemort's hubris that allowed for his undoing currently; she would not be the one to cue him in to that fact.
By day three of no Malfoy, Hermione had read Closing Consciousness twice in full, and continued to pour over certain sections repeatedly. A few chapters outlined the opening meditations that she had learned from Professor Snape via Harry in more detail than her friend had provided, and she spent as much time as she could muster cross-legged on the bed trying to make her mind blank.
The books instructions made it seem so easy. Count backwards from ten to zero and then clear your mind, it instructed. Just close your eyes and allow yourself to drift away from your physical body. Without being able to let go you will never be able to progress to further steps in our process!
Letting go and not thinking had never been specialty of Hermione Granger's. Her father had once said as much to her after a particularly poor conference with her primary school teachers, and her mind kept filling in the silence.
"Sweetheart, maybe – and it's not your fault, of course – you could just let your teachers do the whole lesson before asking questions," her father had said, a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Malfoy had said as much also, albeit with harsher phrasing, during their time at Hogwarts.
Sitting with her legs folded under herself, she scowled. It was a good thing to have a busy mind. Her mind had saved Harry Potter – and by extension, the wizarding world – multiple times. She was the notorious brains of their trio; that was because she thought things through. Her mind wasn't silent because she had things to think about.
She had to think about things like Malfoy. Things like how Harry and Ron were faring, if they had escaped Malfoy Manor unharmed. Things like the fact that her body seemed to be unable to go a full day without sending her into a panic-induced seizure.
There was much she had to think about.
And by that logic, she had much to lock away.
Closing her eyes, she began the countdown backwards from ten once more.
And then Malfoy returned.
He said nothing, but she woke, sore and smelling that burning smell that she was coming to realize had meant a fit and a seizure had occurred that evening, to find Draco Malfoy brewing in the room she was quickly coming to call her own.
She had breathed his name under her breath in surprise, watching how his shoulders tensed before he turned to face her, expressionless.
She stared dumbly at his face – sallower than she remembered – for a moment before finally letting her breath go. "You're back."
Hermione wasn't sure how she felt about this fact.
"Zilly said you've been good," he remarked, a smirk twisting his face.
Hermione frowned, unable to stop the words from tumbling from her lips. "I'm not a pet."
Malfoy gave her a disdainful once-over, his eyes moving quickly over her form. "No, you're much worse than that, aren't you?"
"Malfoy-" she began, but he shook his head.
"Can you be quiet, or do I have to silence you?"
Hermione felt her eyes widen. "I can be quiet."
Malfoy's lips pursed and he nodded curtly before turning back to his bench, plunging them back into the silence she had come to loathe.
Something was wrong.
Hermione wasn't sure exactly what was wrong, but something was. She felt it in her gut as her mind guided her through her past through the fog of half-consciousness. It wasn't quite a dream – she didn't dream – but it was something close. She could sense the darkness of the room around her, yet for some reason still felt the tendrils of sleep the clung to her body.
"Sorry, 'Mione, you've been gone all year! It only makes sense that Sophie's now my best friend."
"But-"
"Look we've always known you've been smart, it's nice for us to have a chance to shine at school too, you know?"
Something shifted.
"He's left us, Harry, he's gone."
"I know, Hermione." Warm arms engulfed her as she began to cry.
"How- even if- how would I- we ever move past this?"
Silence, and then, "I don't know."
She sobbed again, "He's always going to have left when I needed him most."
Another.
"You didn't have to take the blame for us, you know?"
"I know that, Ronald."
"So, why did you?"
"Couldn't think of anything else in the moment."
"Could've just said you were in the loo."
A shift.
"I know that you don't get it, but we've got to help out more when he's having the headaches."
"I'm not here to be your servant."
"You think I don't know that?"
"You don't bloody act like it."
"We are meant to be helping Harry, Ron. That's what's most important."
"Course he's what's most important."
Headaches.
"I'm sorry, mum, I've got to go-"
"I don't understand, Hermione."
"I know but Harry- he's got these moments where- it doesn't really matter, does it?"
"It does when my only child is missing the holidays."
"My best friend's father almost died!"
"Your father-"
She was sure – it wasn't a dream – but she was foggy as she was dropped into another moment.
"I must save Luna. I cannot lose Luna. You must not leave."
She woke with a gasp, quieting instantly when she felt the wand tip pressed into her temple. She hadn't given anything away, there was no new information that had been pulled from her mind. Now, it was only a battle between herself and whoever was in her room.
"Please," she began, already begging the unknown figure for any sort of leniency.
It was to no avail. "Crucio."
She couldn't help the scream that tore from her body as she thrashed in the covers. As she came back into herself, she immediately knew the voice and shape that hovered over her to be Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman of her nightmares. Hermione could feel her own body tensing, the panic beginning to flood her chest as she gasped for breath.
"What are you hiding, little mudblood?" Bellatrix hissed, stale spit landing on Hermione's face as she writhed underneath the weight of Bellatrix. The older witch was sitting on top of her in the bed; she could feel the woman's legs on either side of her body, the wand digging into her throat.
"Nothing," Hermione sobbed, yelping slightly as a slap sent her face sideways into the bed. "Nothing! I swear!"
Her own arm was yanked towards her face, fingers pressing into the barely healed Mudblood scar on her left arm. They dug into the skin, which sprang open at the pressure, red droplets falling onto Hermione's face.
"No," she whimpered, the implication hurting more than the wound itself.
"No?" Bellatrix questioned, her eyes flashing in the darkness. "No, you're not a little mudblood? No, I shouldn't tear you apart right here?" Her voice dropped to a threatening hiss, despite the fact that no one else was in the room. "You embarrassed me in front of my master, this reminder is the least I can do."
Hermione hadn't let her guard down, but she felt the semblance of security she had come to have within Malfoy Manor falling away. Despite her reminders to herself, she had gotten too comfortable. She had allowed herself to sleep in the enemy's den. This was her fault.
"A mudblood and a liar," Bellatrix hissed, sending another ripple of pain through Hermione's body.
Hermione hated the person that the pain curse reduced her to, but she couldn't help herself as she screamed again. Moody – both versions of the man – had spent time teaching her the Unforgivables but had failed to prepare her for the aching burning that flooded her veins. He had failed to understand that she couldn't; he had never conveyed that it would make her beg for the end in such a way.
Light flooded the room, illuminating the crazy witch above her.
Bellatrix's wild hair blanketed them both; this was the closest Hermione had felt to death herself. She knew that Bellatrix Lestrange wasn't a large woman, but what she lacked in size she made up for in sheer terror. Her hollow eyes stared into Hermione's soul as one hand came up to grasp her throat. She struggled slightly, feeling the air drain from her windpipe, ignoring the wand that was pressed to her temple.
Bellatrix smiled, her teeth glinting in the new light.
"I think that's quite enough, Aunt Bella."
Hermione had never been so grateful for Draco Malfoy in all of her life. She could see the witch's eyes dart sideways, her hand loosening slightly around Hermione's neck. Hermione spluttered, working to pull oxygen back into her lungs as the older woman began to lean backwards.
"Aunt Bella," Malfoy said again, his voice cold. "Our master said that she was to be kept alive."
Hermione could feel Bellatrix's weight shift before she was free of the older woman, allowing her to scramble away from that side of the bed. She felt the disarray of her nightgown, tugging it up to make sure it covered her entire chest.
She glared accusingly at Malfoy, but his eyes were fixed on his aunt. He wasn't holding his wand tightly, instead it was loose in his fingers, as if he had forgotten that it was there. Bellatrix's posture did not match, her wand pointed into Malfoy's chest.
Bellatrix's red lips parted before she smiled at her nephew. "You do not dictate what fun I get to have in this house."
Malfoy shrugged casually, though his eyes were sharp. "He told me to keep her alive."
"Crucio."
Bellatrix muttered the curse with a smile on her lips; before Hermione knew what was happening Malfoy was his knees. She could feel the panic closing in around her but forced herself to watch as the black-haired witch muttered another curse.
"Legilimens."
Malfoy stiffened on the ground, his fists stilling against the carpet as he hung his head on floor. She couldn't see the majority of his face, buried in the carpet, but could hear his heavy breaths in the quiet room. Bellatrix's face twisted into her signature smile as Malfoy let out a pathetic whimper from low in his throat.
"You'd do well to remember, nephew," Bellatrix snarled as she flounced towards the door.
Malfoy stood as his aunt exited, his fingers scrambling on the floor to grasp his wand. There was a pause – a long moment where they both strained their ears to hear if Bellatrix was returning – before Malfoy took a half step towards the bed. Hermione watched him through weary eyes.
He said her last name softly, and suddenly the spell was broken. Hermione took a deep breath, her mind beginning to leave her body. Until Malfoy Manor she had never dealt with these moments of panic in a way that was debilitating, but something now was sending her mind reeling through space.
She was gasping, fighting for air, stuck fully inside her own mind. Malfoy was saying something to her, moving through the room as it closed in around her. He was prying her fingers open, shoving a vial into her hand and tilting her head backwards. She coughed, the potion clogging her throat as she slowly returned to the room. Opening her mouth to ask Malfoy about the potion, she found him already bandaging her arm, the word disappearing under white gauze.
"Don't worry, Granger, I made them for myself. It's just to calm you down."
He had made potions to calm himself. He had needed to develop a potion to calm himself down.
Malfoy was pulling backwards, walking towards the bench and away from the bed. He held a small purple vial, his eyes questioning. Hermione shook her head no, immediately recognizing the color of Dreamless Sleep, watching as Malfoy's mouth shifted at her actions. He plucked another potion vial from the bench, walking it towards her.
"It's early in the morning, Granger. You should take something else to sleep for a few hours, at least."
Hermione closed her eyes, feeling the hot tears that had already streaked down her cheeks. She shook her head slowly, looking up to meet Malfoy's eyes. He mirrored her, his eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his pale lids heavy before het wet his bottom lip and placed the vial on the bed next to her hand.
"I'll leave the Dreamless out if you need it then," his voice was quiet as he waved his wand, floating the second potion over to her. She nodded, uncapping the first potion and sipping it slowly, almost enjoying the taste of peppermint that he had obviously brewed in.
Malfoy's eyes examined her for another moment before he stepped back towards his door. Hermione watched as he turned back around, fingers grasping the doorknob, to look at her in the mirror.
"Granger-" he swallowed deeply, something cracking in his cold expression. "If you're up for it, maybe tomorrow we can visit the library."
Quickly, Malfoy stepped through the door and was gone.
She spent a moment breathing, just trying to quiet her body down, but found herself continuing the fall into the throes of panic. She could feel the potion, pulling her back from the ledge, almost too influential over her personality. Hermione Granger, smartest witch of her age, should be pounding the walls, fighting, not curled up docilly in Malfoy Manor.
It only took another moment to remember why she wasn't. The flashes of the cruciatus and the probing of her already tired mind would not be easy to forget. And she wouldn't forget. She couldn't.
Her fingers shook as she pulled Closing Consciousness from her bedside table, promising not to sleep until she had at least mastered the first meditations.
Ten, nine, eight…
Author's Note: I've added this disclaimer at the start as well, but if you're getting updates I wanted to make sure this all is very clear!
Thank you if you've been reading this story! Before reading, I want to make sure that a few things are very clear.
The first is that I do not endorse JKR's views on the trans community. I am so appalled by her (and the HP actors who refuse to speak up) continual endorsement of transphobia. Trans rights are human rights.
Second is on the concept of Dramione. I started this story because I was curious about what could have made Draco Malfoy a redeemed character in my eyes, especially as he does join the Death Eaters willingly and is incredibly spoiled (and not abused) in the books. I think that fanon has largely said that he should be redeemed, but that doesn't take away from his actions that were made of his own accord. I obviously think people can evolve and change, but that does not erase his past. In writing Dramione, I often find Draco is portrayed as abused/weak/manipulated, and the onus is often on Hermione to fix him, and I wanted to challenge those ideas.
With this, I wanted to write a fic that explored that element of Draco - this story often provides more information than is required in good storytelling (ex. the shift in 3rd person narrator), because I really wanted to explore this concept of "what could have made Draco Malfoy redeem himself?"
I also take issue with the way that a lot of Dramione fanfics are written (namely, the amount of sexual assault / coercion, ease of forgiveness of a childhood bully who called her slurs, etc.). I am very mindful of this while writing, and please feel free to call me out if I make you uncomfortable (I can't promise I'll always change things, but would love to know going forward) or making things dark for the sake of being dark.