January 17th
Hermione was fortunate enough to find a cellar door that had been left unlocked. Most people, in her experience as a person on the run, rarely found cause to enter their cellars in the winter months. It wasn't like it used to be before the joys of modern inventions and the market on every corner. Instead of a cellar being used to store the very food necessary to survive the winter months, they were usually crowded with broken or unwanted junk: toys that had been outgrown, furniture that had become outdated, clothing that was out of fashion.
It certainly wasn't a long term solution to her constant problem of finding a place to keep out of the elements. Until she knew how she was going to escape the country completely or until she decided to stop running and return to the fate that was awaiting her in Hogsmeade, she had to keep moving. The unsuspecting owners of the home she was hiding in might not notice her for a few days, but she couldn't get too complacent. If she wasn't careful and stayed too long, she would be discovered again.
Wrapped up in every blanket she kept in her beaded bag and several more she found in a box in the cellar, Hermione settled down on an old sofa. As far away from the entrance to the cellar as it was possible to get, she felt secure hidden amongst the towering boxes of rubbish her host family couldn't bear to get rid of. Based on what else lay around her in that corner, she felt confident that even if a member of the family came down the stairs to search for something they needed, they wouldn't likely go anywhere near where she was trying to sleep. The plastic Christmas tree further encouraged her. If they'd already taken down all of their holiday decorations, maybe they wouldn't have a need to return until the holidays were upon them again. She was just grateful that the space was dry. That was a luxury that many cellars in old houses lacked. Yet one more lesson she'd discovered in her time on the run.
As she tried to take advantage of the relative safety of her shelter to get some sleep, Hermione's mind continued to wander back to the message she couldn't ignore. The first time she had seen that handwriting was a couple of days after she was removed from the castle. Antonin Dolohov had an attic room set up for her in his Hogsmeade house. He had been giving her an overview of what she could come to expect as his pupil. Being out of the broom cupboard had been a relief only until she fully understood what her life outside was going to be like. Dolohov was going to brainwash and mold her into the perfect puppet.
On her first day in his home, she naively expected to be fed and given the opportunity to wash her body. Weeks of filth still clung to every pore. She knew that she had a pungent odor. No one, not even someone who had spent fifteen years in Azkaban, could stand to be around her in that state for any length of time. So, when Antonin led her into his kitchen where a large meal was laid out on his table under a stasis spell, Hermione felt her stomach growl and ache for the sustenance it could smell. One step towards the food without permission earned her a hex to the gut that sent her toppling to the floor.
"You will only eat when I tell you to eat. Is that understood?"
She could vaguely remember nodding her head in agreement. At that moment, she might have agreed to anything to spare her from the pain of his punishment and to finally fill her empty belly. It didn't occur to her until much, much later how little she'd been willing to sell herself for in order to keep on surviving. Antonin had a voracious appetite for cruelty that she would become well acquainted with the longer their training lasted. He ordered her to ignore all of the pain she was experiencing to stand back up on her feet. Inches from the food, he pointed to a spot on the floor.
"Remain in this spot."
He swept out of the room moments later to her surprise. A minute passed. Two minutes. Five. Ten. Fifteen. She knew only because there was a clock ticking loudly on the wall above the table. If she kept her eyes focused on the clock, she wasn't as tempted by the food. When he'd been gone for twenty minutes, Hermione took a step towards the table. If he wasn't around to witness her disobedience, what would it matter? The same spell struck her in the back. She witnessed him remove his disillusionment spell as she clutched her guts on the kitchen floor. He allowed her to lay there for several minutes in pain.
"Remain in this spot."
Three more times over the course of the next forty-eight hours he would cast the spell on her from a hidden corner of the room when she disobeyed his order. They were the two longest days of her entire life. Sitting in the darkness of the broom cupboard had been nothing compared to standing in place waiting for permission to eat. Antonin only allowed her to sit at the table when she didn't move for over an entire day. Sheer willpower and abject terror of what he would do to her if she didn't comply kept her rooted in the spot. Not caring whether she stood or laid down or just sat on the kitchen floor, he was satisfied with her ability to follow orders.
Hermione would've liked to admit that she'd been harder to break, but she wasn't. A human being can only take so much before they cracked and between months on the run, watching her best friend be murdered before her eyes, weeks in a broom cupboard where she didn't know what her fate would be, and then having her mind savagely ravished by Lord Voldemort, she wasn't at her strongest to begin with. While there would be many more times in the future that she would incur Antonin's wrath when she disobeyed an order from him or because she simply displeased him, never once did she eat in his presence without his permission.
After eating exactly what she was permitted to prevent her getting sick, Hermione was allowed to take the first shower she could remember having since she was a guest at Shell Cottage following her night of torture in Malfoy Manor. The simple pleasure that she had always taken for granted was an experience she wasn't likely to soon forget. Part of her was afraid that he wouldn't allow her to take another one. A bigger part of her was afraid that she would step out of the shower only to find him watching and waiting for an opportunity to exert even more power over her body. To her great relief, he made it clear early on that he wasn't interested in using his position of power to force her into his bed. She would either find her way there of her own desire or she wouldn't. That had been a kindness she hadn't expected from a Death Eater, and one of the few he ever offered.
Once dressed in clean pajamas and feeling more human than she had in a long time, she climbed the narrow staircase to the tiny room that had been set aside for her use. Antonin promised that she would be allowed to sleep as long as she desired before they resumed her training in earnest. He could understand the simple fact that her body needed rest, especially after his rather unconventional first lesson.
There was nothing remarkable about the space. Just a small wardrobe, a single bed and a little wooden table with rickety legs. Exhausted and excited about the prospect of sleeping in an actual bed again, Hermione slipped between the sheets with a sigh. She tossed and turned to try to find the most comfortable position. As tired as she was, she knew that once she fell asleep she'd likely be in that same position for hours. Pushing her hand underneath her pillow, her fingers brushed against a piece of parchment. She pulled it out to discover a hastily written note in handwriting she never forgot.
Fear overtook her at once. What if this was another test? Another lesson that Antonin was trying to teach. Should she turn it over to him without reading it first? Hide it? Pretend like she didn't find it? Her curiosity finally got the better of her. The message was simple, but encouraging. For the first time since arriving in Antonin's house, she didn't feel completely and utterly alone.
I'm not outside your door any longer, but I'm still watching. If you need me for any reason, open your window.
Maybe it was madness to imagine that she had a secret admirer or protector. He was almost certainly a Death Eater even if he hadn't admitted it openly during her captivity. She didn't know his name or even what he looked like. For all she knew, he was just playing a dangerous game. Any other time, any other woman, would have been unnerved by such a sentiment from a man she didn't know. He could have been acting on Antonin's orders. One more way he could control her. There was still so much to learn about her new life. She fell asleep clutching the promise, false or not, of an ally in a world filled with enemies.
In the present, Hermione unrolled the parchment with his handwritten request that she trust Malfoy. No matter how many times she read it, none of it made any sense. Where was he? Why wasn't he seeking her out himself? It might have been another in a long line of foolish hopes, but she imagined that if she wasn't alone any longer, she might actually have a chance of surviving. Still holding the crushed bluebell and the parchment, the exhausted witch fell asleep with memories of the first time she opened the window to her bedroom bleeding into her dreams.