Edit: As of the 28th of April 2015, I have made major changes to this fic, thanks to constructive criticism by a reader. Scenes have been added, and the tone and content of many existing scenes have been altered or expanded upon. I hope that such alterations give a better picture of the dynamic between Draco and Hermione, which previously was not illustrated in a great deal of detail because I was trying to keep this fic short. However, the subject material does not lend itself to brevity, it seems - and in order to make a proper go of achieving what I set out to achieve, I have had to make some changes. I recommend skimming back through the fic from the beginning before reading on, but doing so is not necessary. I hope you find the changes I've made to be positive ones!
Liss xx
Part Four
"You have to eat something," he says in half-angry frustration, standing there before her in dark grey oxford shirt, vest, and dress trousers, waiting with anxious eyes and tense shoulders. Hermione huddles smaller on the corner armchair she has been in since she woke screaming at four am, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She ducks her head to stare at the floor just to the right of Malfoy, and shakes it, hair falling forward like a veil. The soup and toast he brought up on a silver tray sits sadly untouched on the breakfast table across the room, along with a large pot of tea. She isn't hungry. She has spent the past three days not being hungry, nothing passing her lips except water and a tea the Malfoy brought up for her, and now, on the fourth day, he is…something more than just worried.
"Granger...you have to." He grind the words out, and Hermione shuts her eyes and rests her forehead against her knees, breathing hot and slow into the safe dark space between her folded up legs and her body.
"I'm not hungry," she tells the warm darkness, hugging her bare legs tighter. If she stays very still and very small, it is…easier. Easier to pretend to be elsewhere, anywhere but here, trapped in Voldemort's seat of power. Malfoy tried to go out to the drop point again yesterday, and was sent back, he told her. Not allowed out; under watch, a consequence of his deceit. She wonders if he is telling the truth, sometimes, in her darker moments, when everything seems hopeless and desperate, as if the end has come for her and she just hasn't realised it yet. Just hasn't lain down and died.
"If you don't eat, you'll die," he snaps then, and Hermione peeks up at him, nervous and alert; he is flushed with his anger and haggard from exhaustion, his fists bunching at his sides. Her eyes linger on his fists with instinctive hints of fear stirring and curling sick in her belly; he hasn't laid a finger on her except to deal with her injuries since it happened, but a primal part of her must remember. She flinches when he moves too quickly around her, and when he displays anything but calm her heart becomes a stampede in her chest, and fear-sweat chills her skin. Malfoy follows the line of her vision, and he makes a sharp, apologetic sound and his hands fly open. Splaying large and long-fingered, skinny, the knuckles on his right hand bruised and patterned with little nicks and cuts from when he had broken the bathroom mirror and never healed himself.
"You'll die if you don't eat," he says again, in a voice that is too-calm and too-soft, and vibrates with tension under the surface, hands fidgeting awkwardly at his sides – he is too aware of them now, Hermione thinks absently. She sighs and rests her temple against one knee, trying to ignore Malfoy; she feels dizzy and gone, as though she is floating away from everything. Partly the hunger and partly just how she feels now. "And then – then – what happened…what I did to you will have been for – been for fucking nothing. For nothing." He loses his calm then, voice breaking rough, and his fingers spidering wide at his sides as he tries to stop himself making fists. "Granger, please."
"I'm sure it was so terrible for you," she says quiet and bitter, staring absently off across the room, pain swelling and cracking against her ribs. Her breath snaps in, voice turns vicious. "So awful for you, how you had to hit me and hurt me and – and stick your dick in me and –"
"Don't." The word rips furious from Malfoy's throat as his shoes shift on the floor, and she presses her lips together and lifts her head to watch him as he takes two stumbling steps back. He is bloodless-pale and somehow fragile in his anger, shoulders hunched a little and his eyes wide and written with sick guilt. "It was," he hisses, fists clenching again, the words wobbling and shaking and spilling from his lips. "It fucking was awful and don't you dare - don't you dare act like it was fun for me. I – I – yeah it was so much fucking worse for you, Granger, I realise that, I'm not an arsehole, but I – I wasn't exactly having a fucking good – good time. I…I didn't want to hurt you…"
He turns away fast, his head bowing and his hands sliding quick through his hair, self-soothing and panicky, his breath coming in ragged and loud in the silence. And then he moves forward again and snatches up his wand from the arm of the chair, before walking away with stiff, sharp steps, without a word; across the bedroom and out the door. He shuts it with a carefulness that makes it clear he wanted to slam it, and she hears it lock behind him. She can still use the key that dangles from a small chain by the door to get out – she knows; she has tried before. Malfoy locking it merely keeps her safe from the other occupants of the mansion.
The air shudders out of her.
Cruel; what she said was just plain cruel, and Hermione wishes now, staring at the closed door from her huddle on the armchair, that she could take it back. But she can't. And she cannot deny that it felt so good to get it out. She has threads of anger mixed in with her fear and listlessness, which spark up now and then like a struck match, and when she doesn't exorcise it, it burns her. She unfolds from the chair and gets up with a wince, dizzied and weak from fasting, her muscles feeling sore. Thanks to the bruise potions and Malfoy's rudimentary healing skills her injuries are nearly fully gone, but sitting cramped in one place for so long leaves her body stiff.
But it feels safest there – the darkest corner of the room when the reading lamp is turned off, the armchair like a fortress in her mind. An illusion of protection; a nest to retreat to. Where she sits, and sits, and sits, and lets the day drift past her without truly touching her, only moving to go pee and gulp down water from the bathroom hand basin. She does that now, wondering where Malfoy has gone, and when he will be back. Hoping he will be all right and unharmed, both because she hurt him, and because he is all that is keeping her safe right now.
She washes her hands with soap that smells like woody spices and vanilla, and finger combs her straggling hair. Malfoy hasn't mended the mirror above the basin, and Hermione is glad of that. She doesn't want to see herself; because she looks awful, because it hurts, because she doesn't recognise the look in her own eyes. She hates seeing a stranger staring back at her. Filling her cupped hands with water, Hermione drinks until the hunger pangs in her stomach have quieted a little. She doesn't know why she doesn't want to eat. She just…doesn't want to, so she doesn't. It is one of the few things she can control, so maybe that is why.
The room is still empty and silent when Hermione emerges from the bathroom, and she sighs softly, shoulders sagging with both relief and disappointment mixed. She does what she has done the past few days while Malfoy is gone serving his Dark Lord; sits and tries to read, to sleep, to think of a way out, to lose herself in happy memories – to do anything but sit and dwell on the trauma and fear that make a toxic stew in her stomach. The worst thing is not what has happened, she thinks, as she sits in the armchair with the book she has been trying and failing to read for the past half-hour.
It is not the women dying in the dungeons, or the rape and the beatings, although both those things haunt her nightmares. But those aren't what crawl under her skin and make her itch and panic and curl up on the armchair during the day, feeling like being very, very still is the only way she can hold herself together. Those things are over now; there is nothing Hermione can do to save the women, and Malfoy will not hurt her again – it was Voldemort's fault, Malfoy didn't want to hurt her, it was their only option, and it saved her life, she tells herself – and knowing that helps her cope with it, most of the time. She feels horrified and violated, but knowing that she and Malfoy were both as unwilling makes it…easier to bear.
What Hermione is finding it hardest to cope with, is the fear that she will never get out of here alive.
That Malfoy won't be able to get her out, that he'll be found out as a traitor, that he won't be able to protect her anymore, that the Order won't come to rescue her, that Voldemort will take her away from Malfoy and do Merlin knows what with her, that she will be trapped in Malfoy's room forever. Her fears of the future prey on Hermione's mind without end; a constant litany of the same terrible thoughts over and over, mixed in with memories and nightmares. So she tries to distract herself, and think of – do – other things. She always fails, as she does now, sitting on the armchair with the book unread, picturing her death over and over in a multitude of different ways, wondering in the back of her mind if Malfoy will come back or if he has been found out, even now.
When Malfoy returns, hours later, he carries a tray that is laden with food, and moves with an odd stiffness to the table, laying his wand down in an obvious manner for her to collect if she wishes, before going about his business. He doesn't look at Hermione, but she glues her eyes on him, filled with relief that he is back, and trying to work up the momentum to say something. He vanishes the old tray – the food still untouched – and sets down the new one, unloading the plates. Roast meats, crispy roast potatoes, an array of other vegetables, and a decanter of pumpkin juice. Hermione's stomach growls shockingly loud and he looks up and across the room at her, eyes falling on her in her dark corner.
"Oh my god!" Hermione's eyes spring wide and she covers her mouth to stifle her gasp as she stares at him full of shocked concern; Malfoy sports brand new colourful bruises. One sweeps purple-red from atop the swollen bridge of his nose down underneath each eye, there are more spreading on his right cheekbone and left jaw, there is a fresh split in his left eyebrow that is red raw but not bleeding, and his mouth is puffy, lips swollen, bruises around the left of it. He looks a mess. The last of the bruises from - from when they had been found out had just been beginning to fade yellow-green, and now he was hurt all over again.
"What…what happened?" She knows that whatever has happened can't be too bad, considering he seems more concerned with dinner than anything else. But she worries anyway, nerves jangling. It could be a sign of things to come.
"Come and eat, Granger," he says, voice tired and a little thick, dabbing gingerly at his swollen mouth with the side of his thumb, and checking it for blood. Hermione frowns, annoyed at having her question ignored, her worry picking up. She has no intention of eating, but she gets up anyway. Malfoy's tee-shirt falls to just below her bum as she stands, his boxer shorts reaching mid-thigh, the satin slipping and sliding together as she approaches him. It feels strange to be walking toward Malfoy instead of avoiding him as she has the past couple of days, and from the little half-step he slides back with a wince, it doesn't feel natural to him either.
She stops a few paces away from him, hugging her arms loosely around her waist in a defensive gesture she isn't really even aware of. She'd had vague plans of demanding to know what had happened, but now she just feels exposed and vulnerable, and wishes she had stayed in her corner. Only…his face. Malfoy raises his unhurt eyebrow at her, maybe trying for casual and unconcerned, but this up close he just looks wrecked. She winces in sympathy for him, eyes running over each purple-red, darkening bruise, the swollen knots and puffy places on his face that make him look not quite right.
Malfoy's eyes are grey like river stones; wet-dark and worn smooth, unreadable. They seem out of place in the bruises and swellings, which change the angles and lines of his face and make her want to play spot the difference with the shape of his features.
"Are you all right, Granger?" he asks, half-worried, half-painfully amused, and then hisses in self-censure as he realises the obvious a second too late. "Sorry, I just mean…you look…you're staring," he finishes weakly, rubbing at his mouth again as though it bothers him – and it no doubt does, Hermione thinks, as swollen and tenderised as it is.
"I – I'm fine," she says hesitantly, forcing herself to drop her arms to her sides, where they hang awkwardly – she's too aware of them now. It feels strange to talk as well; her voice is a little scratchy and sounds loud and echoing in her ears. She had said as little as possible the past few days, and besides, she feels so light-headed everything seems a little wrong and off-balance. "Are you all right, Malfoy?"
"It doesn't matter." He drops his hand from his mouth and backs away with marionette-awkward steps, sitting down at the table and gesturing for her to take the other chair. She edges closer. The food – piled on two large platters in the middle of the table – smells delicious, and Malfoy takes generous helpings of everything for his own plate. It tempts her gnawing belly, but she's focused on why the man keeping her alive is noticeably and rather horribly battered.
"Aren't you…going to heal it?" Malfoy shakes his head, fringe falling forward from its rough slick back, a few fine, nearly-white strands getting caught by the raw, weeping split at his brow.
"No. It's a – well, not a punishment, exactly. But if I heal it I may just get replacements. I'd rather not risk that."
"Does it concern…me, at all?" Hermione remains standing for now, tense and nervy, feeling herself like an animal that could startle at any second. The dark, faux-safety of the corner is stupidly appealing, although she can't help noticing the food, stomach cramping and mouth flooding with saliva
"No," he says smoothly – too smoothly, and she narrows her eyes at him, her pulse thwip-thwip-thwipping quicker and her chest feeling tighter. He's lying and Hermione knows it. Fear tumbles and catches all the way down the bones of her spine, icy and jolting.
"Yes it does." She sounds reedy and thin in her fear, as though she can't seem to draw a proper breath. That would be because she can't, and she wonders vaguely if she's having a panic attack. Malfoy's mouth tightens and he looks down at his plate, picking up his knife and fork and sawing too-vigorously at a slice of beef. His knife squeals on the china, cool grey eyes flicking up to meet hers for a second, and his tone is firm and final as he looks back at his dinner plate.
"I sorted it, Granger. It's fine. There's no need… Just drop it."
"Tell me, or I won't eat," she says then, stepping up to the table and resting her hand lightly on the back of the chair, not sitting down yet. It's a rather desperate bargaining attempt and she hates using it, but from the suddenly furious and trapped look in Malfoy's pale eyes, she thinks it will work. But then his grip on his cutlery shifts, holding it hard and angry in his fisted hands.
"I swear to Merlin, Granger, that I will force-feed you if I have to," he growls warningly, and Hermione blanches, just the thought of being trapped and helpless while Malfoy holds her down and… Echoes of sharp, bloody, memory rise in her mind and her fingers cramp white-knuckled tight on the chair, her whole body goes tense, and she stares at him wide-eyed and frantic, fingers scrabbling for his wand and closing over it tight.
"Don't. You can't d-do that." She feels tears rise burning behind her eyes as panic slams through her. She begs him, trying not to remember, unthinking and frantic: "Please." Malfoy is horror-struck. He swears harsh beneath his breath and makes a frustrated sound that she doesn't think is directed at her.
"Fuck. I didn't mean that. I didn't mean it. All right? I want you to fucking well eat something, but I won't make…you're not a prisoner." He pushes his fringe off his forehead with one hand, fingers shoving through his white-blonde hair, and his eyes lock to hers. He stares up at her steadily, and earnest. "You don't have to be afraid I'm going to hurt you…a-again." It sounds like the last word is dragged out of him, and his eyes slide from hers to the table, shame weighing his shoulders and making his mouth turn down a little.
She swallows hard. "If you won't tell me about something that relates to me, just because you don't feel like it, then I may as well be your prisoner."
A pause, before a resumption of anger in Malfoy's face and voice. "Fine then," he says, with dull resentment at having his hand forced. When he looks up at Hermione her stomach flips with fear-sympathy-sadness at the bleakness in Malfoy's eyes as he gives in to her. "Fine. If you must know, Goyle and Crabbe Sr. caught me trying to slip out to the drop point again. They stopped me, and in the course of escorting me back inside, said they wanted to take a turn at you," he says bluntly, his tone still flat and dull. "I told them that they could go fuck each other because they wouldn't be laying a finger on you, and unsurprisingly, they didn't take to that well."
A beat as Hermione processes that, her stomach tying in sick knots; because she is in very real danger, because Malfoy was beaten for protecting her, because after what she said to him this morning he had still risked everything try to get her out again. She bites her tongue, trying to be calm and stay where she is, clutching the chair like a lifeline. The possibility that the other Death Eaters would be so eager to hurt her hadn't occurred to her before now. She had thought that being thought of as Malfoy's would make her untouchable. Apparently not.
"…Oh. Oh, I…"
"They disarmed me before they told me what they wanted to do with you – used an expelliarmus when I wasn't expecting it, bloody backstabbing fucks," he tells her, as if disgusted with himself for being caught off-guard. "And then when I told them I wouldn't let them…have you, they took their displeasure out on me, as I said. I'm just lucky that the two idiots didn't use magic, and didn't kill me accidentally either." He sighs, frustrated and short, shoving his food aimlessly about his plate as he goes on. Hermione finds herself sitting down at the table, hands knotted up in her lap, twining over each other nervously as she listens.
"Wandless, there's only so much I can do against those two fuckers. They're built like their sons, as you saw." He grimaces. "When I tried to warn them off by telling them the Dark Lord wouldn't like two worthless gits putting one of his most promising servants out of action, they said the Dark Lord had removed his protection, and continued merrily kicking the shit out of me." There's a dry flippancy to him as he lays down his cutlery, unconsciously holding his side with one hand as he shifts in his seat and runs two fingers gently over the bruise on his cheekbone.
Hermione cringes with empathy, as she remembers starkly the assault she'd suffered in the cells – and tries very hard not to remember the brutality that Malfoy had inflicted on her himself, before he'd raped her. That wasn't quite the same, Hermione thinks reluctantly. He hadn't had a choice, she reminds herself. He'd tried to protect her at every point up until then, she reminds herself. Except, a small part of her can't help but feel there is some karmic justice in the fact that just four days later he has been beaten himself, again. Mostly, though, she just feels sorry for Malfoy. But her first focus is the rather worrying thing that Malfoy said at the end there. "What...what does that mean? About Voldemort…removing his protection?"
"It means there is a great deal of in-fighting that I was exempt from, from which I am no longer. I'll have to watch my back far more carefully." Malfoy seems mostly unconcerned – unlike her. Being that she can't do anything about it and all it does is make her feel panicky and furious at her helplessness, Hermione almost wishes that he hadn't told her. Almost. But she is glad she knows, in the end. She stares at his grey eyes, swept beneath by purpling bruises, and wonders who on earth he is, the man who sits before her. He isn't the same arrogant, self-absorbed, cruel boy she knew at Hogwarts; he is someone else entirely now. Someone who risks death to do the right thing, it seems. Is that all because of Snape's memories? Merlin, what did he see? What did he see that could change him so astonishingly?
"I'm sorry," she says very quietly. "About you – you getting hurt, and…about what I said earlier."
Malfoy shrugs, but his bruised features seem to soften a little, and the less injured side of his mouth twitches up into something that almost seems to be a smile. "Don't be sorry, Granger. Just…eat."
She wakes in the moonlit dark to panic and a dark shape looming over the bed, cautiously shaking her shoulder as a familiar, low voice calls her name rough with sleep. "– down, Granger. It's just a dream. Fuck, Granger…" Blurred with nightmares and caught in a maelstrom of sobs, Hermione flails to push back the person touching her at first, gasping and choking, whooping for air.
"No!" She scrambles back with frantic pushes of her feet against the bed, propelling herself across it away from the figure beside the bed, still half-asleep and snared in her nightmares. Her heart pounds like a hammer in her chest, and she's clammy and cold with sweat as she tries to drag herself up out of the confusing thick clog of sleep. "No," she says again, stronger now but still frantic and wrenched from her, pressing her back hard into the wall as if she can sink through it. Her hands are up, as if to ward off an attacker.
Voldemort's inhuman, gleeful smile. The men burning the bodies of prisoners. Malfoy's hand rubbing against her knickers. Being held down as the Snatchers drag at her jeans and thrust their tongues in her mouth. In the hall when Malfoy - Hermione sobs and squeezes her eyes tight shut; trying to find reality in the silvered dark. "No."
"Granger – Granger, it's okay." His voice, gentle but urgent, and her eyes snap up to him, recognising him at last; Malfoy. Pale eyes and hair that snare the moonlight, bruises shockingly dark on his face. His tongue flicks out to wet his battered lips. "It's okay."
The last of her dream snags and claws at Hermione as she sucks in a steadying breath and pulls her knees up, buries her face in her hands. Malfoy's body heavy on her bloodied, battered one, a harsh pain radiating through her insides as he thrusts rough into her, again and again, all hard, sharp desperation. God. She hugs around her middle tightly and folds forward over the bars of her arms, staring at her bare feet atop the twisted blankets. She gulps as her stomach twists, and sour bile rises acrid in the back of her throat. Malfoy's presence is barely reassuring, considering the content of Hermione's nightmares.
"I feel sick," she chokes out, gulping hard and breathing harder, trying to centre herself in the now and banish the nightmare-memories. "I feel…"
Malfoy backs away, turning and making for the table, and she stares blindly after him. All she can see are the soft sheaves of his white-blonde hair shining in the moonlight, and flashes of pale shoulders, glimpses of the lean lines of his back. He feels around on the table - that's right, she'd left his wand there - and whispers a charm. The lamps at the walls flare into life, before settling low and bathing the room in a dull orange-gold glow, and she can see him properly then. It's suddenly easier to breathe. He is less threatening in the soft light; so unlike her fear-filled memories of him.
Malfoy is shirtless, in low slung pyjama trousers knotted with a drawstring, and his torso is as bruised as hers was several days ago - more bruised if she counts the bruising he'd received several days ago. He is covered in dark flowers of purples, blues, red-blacks, and old yellow-greens, and Hermione is drawn out of the last vestiges of dazed sleep by a pained sympathy. Her breath wrenches in, her gaze sweeping over the lean angles of him. Silver ridges of scar tissue catch both the lamplight and her eyes; old scars striped diagonal across his chest and abdomen, half-buried by all the vivid bruising, along with a sprinkle of other odd, uneven scars. She stares; mapping the old wounds and fresh injuries that crisscross Malfoy's pale skin is a distraction from the memory-thoughts looping harsh and frantic through her head. There are a surprising number of them for someone his age, even given the war.
Malfoy sees her staring as he walks over and drops his wand into her lap, muscles shifting and sliding under his skin as he backs away a step or two and stretches unselfconsciously. He presses a hand to a deep bruise at the right of his abdomen as he rolls his shoulders back, and eyes her cautiously. "Granger?" She blinks and looks away, her arms loosening their death grip on her middle, an exhale sinking out of her. She feels small and tense.
"I'm – I'm all right now, I think." She knows she doesn't sound it. The nightmare is fading to insubstantial tatters, as she watches Malfoy cross to a dresser and dig a white tee shirt out of a drawer, but she is still all adrenaline-charged nerves. "You were talking in your sleep," Malfoy says in a tight, strained voice as he yanks the tee shirt on over his head. Hermione remembers; snippets and drifts. His eyes flick over to her, wary, guilt written in the way he holds his mouth and ducks his face a little. Please, Malfoy, don't. Please. Yes, she remembers. He swallows hard, staring at the floor, his hair an unruly mess and his hands fidgeting at his sides.
"Do you want me to go?"
"What?" His question comes from nowhere, and Hermione doesn't understand why he asks it. She slides back down the bed, off her frightened huddle on the pillow against the wall. The sheets are cool and crisp on her bare legs. "Why?" She doesn't like it that the thought of Malfoy leaving her alone scares her; she shouldn't want to cling to him for comfort. But the fact is, she is no longer protected by merely belonging to Malfoy, and while she is quite safe locked and warded in here without him, she is even safer with him. And she doesn't know why he would think he should leave.
"Because…I don't want to remind you of…if you've just dreamt about it…I'd understand if you don't want to be near me. If you don't feel safe with me…" Malfoy is ineloquent, awkward and stilted, a hot flush colouring the unbruised parts of his cheeks. Oh, she thinks; that would make sense, but now that she is fully awake again and can distinguish between dream and reality –
"No. You can stay." Her hands twist up in the bedding, yanking it up over her lap, a heavy weight on her legs as she stares at Malfoy's mouth. The damage to it draws her attention, lips swollen and bruised around the corner, and it is easier to look at than his eyes right now, and not just because he has them cast down toward the floor. "I – I would rather you stayed."
"You're sure?" He licks his lower lip – begins to worry it in a moment of forgetfulness, before wincing and releasing it fast.
"It was just a dream, Malfoy."bHis reddened mouth tightens a little, and she flicks her eyes up to meet his. He is looking at her as though she is a particularly stupid child, telling lies everyone sees through. Maybe she is.
"Granger." Tiredly, his eyes weary and the side of his thumb dabbing tentatively at his mouth, as though he thinks it is bleeding. He has been doing that all evening. "Don't…"
"Don't what, Malfoy?" Hermione is a little sharp; mouth pursing up as she glares at him. The food she ate earlier has given her new energy – she feels stronger and more grounded with something in her stomach. Malfoy's eyebrow arches in surprise for a second, but the discomfort on his face remains.
"Don't try to – it wasn't just a fucking dream." His hands clench up at his sides for a moment, and Hermione bites down on the inside of her cheek, pulling her legs up to her chest and hugging them. It feels safe. His wand rolls to the middle of the bed and she ignores it. It barely works for her anyway.
"No." Her voice is small and flat. "It wasn't."
"You were saying my name. You were scared. Crying."
"I'm not scared now," Hermione offers, voice still small, not sure why she's telling him this except that it's true, and also because she thinks that he hates himself for what he did. And as awful as it was, she doesn't think he should hate himself. It wasn't like he wanted to. It wasn't like he had a better choice.
"That's – that's not the point, Granger."
"Isn't it?" She eyes him, feeling oddly calm, her cheek resting against her knee and her eyes running over his bruised and battered features. "I think maybe it is."
"This morning you seemed…angry at me." He is uncertain and confused, shifting on his feet nervously. And yes, Hermione had been angry. She still is. But not at him, exactly. And intellectually she knows that she can trust him, even if her body still flinches when he comes near. A yawn cracks her jaw, and she huffs a sigh, feeling oddly normal in her weariness.
"Just…stay. Please, Malfoy? I feel safer knowing I'm not alone, in this place," she admits, and watches his lips stutter apart as he hisses softly in surrender. "I know you won't hurt me, Malfoy. Not unless they - they force you to. And they're not here. I trust you, Malfoy." She can see some of the tension and self-loathing drain out of him as his shoulders relax beneath the white tee shirt, and he nods a silent assent.
He leans over her, and scoops up his wand, putting it gently on the bedside table and settling not back in his makeshift bed, but instead at a chair at the table, with a book - leaving her armchair free for her to retreat to if she wants. And every night so far that is what she's done when she's woken. Except tonight, Malfoy leaves a lamp burning to read by, slouched in a chair with his hair licked pale gold by the light, and Hermione stays in the bed a little longer. Curled up on her side with her slitted eyes fixed on Malfoy, who she thinks must feel her gaze but ignores it. He sits and reads, the crisp shruk of pages turning at intervals almost lulling. Her eyes droop, the lids growing ever heavier, but she stares at Malfoy for as long as she can.
She feels almost safe.
"Right," he says to her the next day, once he's returned from his day's duties and washed, and changed into pyjama trousers and a tee-shirt. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione can see that his bony feet are bare, and his hair is golden damp and keeps falling over his eyes. Malfoy looks like any 20-year-old man, if one who likes picking fights, the last of his bruising still just barely visible. He sits down on the edge of the bed, and she can feel his gaze boring into her as she huddles on the armchair and pretends to ignore him. "Right. You need to eat, Granger," he tells her calmly. "It's not optional, anymore."
"It's what?" She snaps her book shut, and looks up at him then. "Not optional? What's that supposed to mean, Malfoy?" It makes her feel…nervous. Unsettled. Threatened. She doesn't like it when he says things like that. The wand is on the bedside table between her armchair and the bed, and she snatches it up, bringing it close to herself and half-glaring at him. He sighs.
"Have you seen yourself lately, Granger?" There is a calm on Malfoy's face that Hermione can't hope to rival, and it irritates her.
"You haven't fixed the mirror," Hermione whispers, staring down into her lap as she turns the wand over and over in her hands. It's a stupid excuse and she knows it; she is far too thin, it's obvious even to her. The clothes Malfoy has given her hang off her now, and her bones poke out sharp against her ashen, papery skin. But she's just…not hungry. The sympathy on his face hurts. It's too tender, too kind, too sad. Draco Malfoy isn't supposed to care about her wellbeing. It only makes her angry right now.
"You fucking well know you're too thin. And you know that you haven't eaten properly - if at all - in days now. Nearly a bloody week now, you've been picking at meals, or having nothing at all. You can't go on like this. You'll die."
There's nothing she has to say to that.
"What - what do you like? To eat, I mean. …Granger?" She's silent, and Malfoy holds out his hand for his wand. "I'll be back shortly," he says, and she hands it over to him reluctantly, always just the tiniest bit frightened he'll turn it on her, even though she knows intellectually how stupid she knows that is. "Okay? Half an hour, and I'll have dinner. And I want you to actually try to eat, okay." Hermione nods silently, not really meaning it, and huddles up in the chair again, turning her face away from him and the worry that radiates off him like an aura. Food makes her feel sick, and the dizzy, light, hollowness that she feels from starving herself and going without is…nice, somehow. Satisfying.
It's a while longer than half an hour before Malfoy appears again, carrying a heavily laden tray in his arms, and kicking the door shut behind him. Hermione catches the scent of something, and her mouth waters despite herself. She sniffs the air. "Is that…?" she begins, and then snaps her mouth shut. Malfoy actually grins. He lays the tray down on the table, and takes off the cover with a silly flourish that she would have teased him for, in another life. Unable to resist the scents, and dreadfully curious as to what exactly Malfoy has gotten, Hermione stands and edges closer to the table. Oh, Merlin.
There are fish and chips still cradled on some greasy paper, and a king-sized block of Muggle chocolate, and a bag of mixed sweets, and packets of Muggle biscuits, and - oh my god, he got her McDonalds. Disgusting, unhealthy, delicious McDonalds - not to mention about half a dozen more unhealthy junk foods, all of which make Hermione's mouth water uncontrollably. She hasn't had Muggle food in far too long - it's just never something that she thinks about at times when doing so is possible. So this…this is like a feast. Like a gift. She picks up the block of chocolate and rubs her thumb gently over the wrapper, listening to the soft crinkle and looking up at him in disbelief. "How - How did you get this?" He smiled, just the tiniest bit, as she dropped the chocolate and opened the McDonalds' bag, shoving a salty chip in her mouth.
"I told the house elf who usually prepares our food that I wanted it. It's somewhat frowned upon, but not unheard of, for Death Eaters to want to sample Muggle food." He shuffles his feet awkwardly, standing by the table as Hermione sits down and shoveled food into her mouth without any attempt at manners, suddenly desperately, achingly, irresistibly ravenous. She wobbles a smile up at him through a mouthful of burger.
"Sit. Eat," she says once she's chewed and swallowed her mouthful, gesturing to the chair opposite. If she shuts her eyes, she could almost be out with her dad - so she does close her eyes, and pretend for a moment. Sitting at a booth on vinyl seats, coke cold on her tongue and chips fresh and hot and salty, chatting about school and Harry and Ron, while her father listens and asks questions now and then. Hermione opens her eyes, to see Malfoy there instead. Palest platinum fringe falling fine and silky half over his eyes as he examines a packet of M&Ms, his mouth thoughtful and relaxed, slouching in his chair in his pyjamas, legs stretched out under the table. She shifts her foot and her toes bump against his, and he jolts, nearly dropping the M&Ms and staring up at her with wide eyes. Her lips twitch faintly into what could nearly be a smile, as she moves her foot away.
"Nice?" he asks her after a moment, nervous as if her scoffing the food as fast as possible isn't a rather clear sign that she like it, and she does smile then, small but real, and nods emphatically.
"Yes, very. …Thank you, Malfoy."
A day ticks by.
And another.
Another.
Another.
It becomes mind-numbing and soul-crushing, and yet somehow Hermione manages to adjust within the first week - to become resigned to it. It is amazing what people can become accustomed to, she thinks from the pretended safety of her armchair. Although, what exactly 'accustomed' means is debateable, Hermione supposes. She is coping though, in a fashion; captivity is becoming her new normal. And it is becoming that far quicker than she is comfortable with, if she is honest. It scares her, how easily she has surrendered to this; but then what other choice does she have except to get herself killed, and at this point that would help no one. Not that she expected Malfoy would even let her. So she just…survives, and the days tick by, excruciatingly slow.
Except for the odd day that Malfoy asks the house elf to bring Muggle food, all the days are the same as the one that came before. Just the same. The banality of it almost begins to eclipse the constant fear that hovers with sharp claws just behind Hermione's back. She starts eating better again, thanks mostly to Malfoy trying to feed her up with Muggle junk food, and she begins to gain back the weight she lost while in the dungeon, and fasting. She sits all day in her armchair and tries to read. Malfoy says that if he can regain Voldemort's faith in him, he'll be able to get to the drop point again and the Order will figure out a rescue plan. She accepts that, and stops dreaming up futile escape plans. She watches out the windows sometimes, and tries to see shapes in the clouds. When she can't focus on her book, or the clouds, or distract herself with a mindless hot bath, Hermione thinks of home.
Hermione thinks with an ache sharp in her chest of the small safehouse that she, Harry, Ron, and the rest of the Weasleys have been staying in for the past several months. Of dinners at the long table, and Harry kissing Ginny on the cheek. Of Ron laughing and teasing her, always balancing a knife-edge between flirtation and casual joking, and neither of them ever willing to cross the line. She had always thought he would be the one. But in the end, it was Malfoy, and it doesn't even count. She thinks of Teddy Lupin, so like his dead parents – she thinks of how sweet he is, how cuddly, always smiling. She thinks of her parents, and wonders like she always did at the safehouse, whether they are still alive; she hasn't asked Malfoy, although it's possible he might know. Because what if the answer is that they are dead?
She remembers a lot; sunk in drifts and swells and currents of memory, sweet and sad and funny. It achieves nothing, but at least it eats away the hours until Malfoy's return each day.
Malfoy is gone all the day-lit hours, in Voldemort's service – demoted but still used, watched and tested constantly for signs of disloyalty. It is difficult, to regain the privileges he once had, and Voldemort is nearly as cruel to the followers he is displeased with as he is to his enemies. Or so she gathers from what she sees, and from the little comments here and there that he lets slip, from his shaking hands and the injuries he always returns bearing. They don't talk about it though, not really. They don't talk about how sometimes when he comes back there is still blood on his clothing, and sometimes it is his, but sometimes it is not, and always he locks himself in the bathroom for a very long time afterward.
Hermione never mentions what she hears through the bathroom door; the first slew of muffled, angry curses, and the rough, quickly stifled sobs that follow, half-hidden beneath the sound of rushing water. Hermione has a feeling that the breakdown at the end of every day is old habit for him, and the thought of it turns her stomach for more than one reason. She wonders how long Malfoy has been coming upstairs with blood staining his skin and his clothing. She wonders how long he has been going into his bathroom to try to wash the blood away, as if anything could wash out the blood of the innocent.
Six days into her stay in Malfoy's rooms he catches her staring at him from her dark corner as he locks the door behind him. He turns for the bathroom with a wince, limping over the floor with one foot dragging a little and the blood…the blood on his hands, coating them like crimson gloves. Her stomach is sick and so is her heart. Congealing, darkening blood coats Malfoy's skin sticky from fingertip to elbow, because Voldemort approves when his people revel in the blood and don't scourgify it away. She gulps and her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and he stares at her. Just stares.
"Your precious Potter sanctioned this," he says then, thickly, sounding as sickened as her, strain etched in fine lines and dark shadows around his grey eyes, the bit of fringe falling over his forehead marked by a faint streak of dark blood, another smear on his cheekbone. "This blood is on his hands too. So if you're disgusted by me, then…then you're…he…" Malfoy can't even finish, swallowing hard and breathing short and fast, his eyes darting so intent over her face, as if he is peeling back the layers of her and digging into her brain. Hermione looks away from his needy, wounded eyes, her own slipping back down to his hands, which he holds stiffly at his sides. He looks like a doctor who's been forced into an emergency, last-ditch surgery attempt, and failed.
She tries to say something – to tell him what she doesn't know, because disgust is clogging her insides like poison and to know that Harry sanctions it, that Malfoy has to do it, it is horrifying – but nothing comes out except his name. "Malfoy."
Their eyes lock. He waits, as she searches with dry lips for the right thing to say. The thing that…that is right. An odd, detached hysteria flails in the back of her head as she stares into the eyes of the man who was forced to violate her, forced to murder, forced to torture, all in the name of the Light. And how does he not hate them? How does he not hate himself? How does he not go mad? She stares at him with her mouth hovering open on the verge of words she cannot find, because all she can think about is how doing the right thing has damned him just as surely as doing the wrong thing would have. The person he has tortured or killed just now is no less dead, or hurt, because Malfoy was doing it for the Order, for the greater good.
She feels sick. So sick. So terribly sorry for him.
And Malfoy stands there with his eyes boring into hers, and he waits, and he waits for her to speak, and Hermione says nothing. There is nothing that she can say. Nothing that will erase the horror and make it okay, because it isn't, and it never will be. Hermione does not believe in the greater good. She closes her mouth, her eyes snapping from his to stare unfocused past his left ear. She sees enough, though. Malfoy's bloodied fists clench, and droplets splot viscous and dark on the floor, and his mouth twists and his face twitches. He limps away stiff and furious, and the bathroom door slams behind him hard enough to rattle all the pictures on the walls.
Hermione buries her face in her hands, and when she weeps, for the first time in days her tears aren't a flood of self-pity running over her fingers. No; she thinks perhaps she is crying for the person whose blood coated Malfoy's hands. And yes, even for Malfoy himself. She is so angry. So angry and so sorry, at all of this; everything.
It has been 19 days since Hermione was captured.
She just wants to go home.
When the nightmares come, late in the night and she can't sleep, he sits at the table with a book and watches over her. Lamp lit and washing him in gold, he stares at his book with blurring eyes, his wand on the table within reach. Sometimes when she wakes in the morning, she sees him there still; slumped forward over the table, fingertips just touching his wand, because even after she falls asleep, she thinks he must stay awake, guarding against the nightmares. His eyes are always bruised around.
But they don't ever speak of it.
There are many things they don't speak of. At first, at least.
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