The manor was originally the family's country estate according to Antonin, a dacha. Hermione had no idea what that meant as she hadn't studied Russian history or culture overly much. She wasn't certain if she cared to know at this moment. The space to which she was confined was well-appointed enough; too well-appointed considering the bassinet not far from a lovely little four-poster bed.
Like everything else in the manor, it had the air of something abandoned long ago and used to the dust that limned its surface, now made stark by its cleanliness.
At least this room wasn't quite as dreary in its color palette. Whoever decorated it used cream for the main color and splashes of peach, rose, and sage to liven it up. Hermione was sure it had looked lovely before it became this faded background suitable for ghost brides and squalling phantom infants.
She was being morbid, but there was little else to do at the moment. Since he'd locked her in, Hermione had scoured the room twice and attempted no fewer than three spells and two attempts to shatter the windows despite being on the third floor.
Nothing had worked, and the majority of the books available for perusal were written in Russian.
She sighed and fell back on the musty linens. The generations of men who had jealously locked away their wives had all added to the enchantments against escape, but some of those must have been old, others weak, and there were always things that slipped through the cracks.
I escaped him before and I will again. She needed to keep reminding herself of that. She was still a Gryffindor, a being of courage. Antonin had not stripped her of herself, only submerged bits and pieces. Hermione had bailed out a good bit of herself now, and she would not let him flood it all again.
So, she would start at the beginning.
What did she know for certain?
Theodore Nott betrayed her.
Why?
He was never unkind to her and seemed to enjoy her presence as a co-worker. Moreover, as she thought about his behavior before the portkey took her, he was antsy, perhaps even guilty. He hadn't wanted to send her to Antonin. Did he even know that was the portkey's destination?
No, he knew.
Lucius would notice she was gone sooner rather than later, and he'd immediately suspect Antonin.
They'd spoken about what the Russian man might do if he got her and secreting her away to his homeland was one of the higher probabilities.
Antonin wanted her pregnant.
Despite her jab at him, Hermione was not pregnant. She took the potion and tracked her cycle. Ordinary sex wasn't enough to counteract that.
The Spring equinox was approaching.
He'd used All Hallows as a conduit for overcoming whatever inhibited her from conceiving, but he hadn't counted on the women of her lineage, which was nearer than his own (excepting recent ancestors), breathing magic into her. Here, she could not call upon them. They were distant, and his power would be great.
He was not taking her liaisons with Lucius well.
Considering the way he hoarded her attention like a dragon, that was not surprising. While her relationship with Lucius ran deep in content, they were not a couple, and he was lighthearted about it out of play. If she wanted to have another lover, he'd be fine with it, hope for details, perhaps watch or direct or join.
Antonin considered her his wife.
He was possessive and jealous of any love she might give another. He thought himself in love with her and tried to force her feelings for him.
It's a weakness.
Yes, but is it a helpful weakness considering his hyperfocus is always on me?
It might be. You've used it before; why not now?
She didn't have connections now. There was no Snape, no Malfoy, no—
There was no one.
Except for the house elf and Theodore Nott. She doubted her former classmates visited the man. It was odd that they were connected at all.
Then again, she had heard of his father, Theodorus Nott. He was considerably older than most parents of those her age. Perhaps he and Antonin knew each other of old.
She would have to figure out that connection.
There was so little, in the end.
Hermione lay like a corpse in a coffin, hands on her stomach as she stared at the cream ceiling. He would keep her locked up here and fading like his mother had in England. Would she also have a little row of graves to remind her of her losses? What was the cemetery here like? Perhaps his mother had gotten the idea from one of her husband's forebears' wives.
Hermione would ask to see their graves. No doubt Antonin would be thrilled to share more family history with her.
She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.
The man's face when he spoke of family, or the history of his land, of the home, took on a certain excitement. He felt he was sharing something precious with her since, to him, it would also be the history of their children. She would wind up killing herself before this was all over if he left her no other options.
Doubtless, there are wards against that here, too. She laughed at the morbid irony of owing her life to the possessive Dolohov men.
The crash of the priceless antique vase against the wall thundered through the Floo connection enough that Draco winced. Lucius Didn't balk at the destruction of a piece that had come with an ancestor all the way from Rome. He was so livid that half his fortune could drain away and he wouldn't bat an eye.
The other half he might need.
"You should have known better than to hire the son of a Death Eater to work with her. Of all the stupid, foolish—"
"Have you forgotten, Father, that I am the son of a Death Eater myself? And there is less evidence for Theodorus Nott being one than there is for you," his son bit out, the green tinge of his cheeks darkening as he spoke. "Theo has never even once spoken a harsh word about muggleborns. I still don't know that he's re—"
Rage boiled over before he could help himself. "I'm telling you that he is responsible. His father is an old chum of Dolohov's and always felt sorry for the man." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I knew it was a mistake to let her out of the manor at all, and now he has her."
"We can't know for sure. The Aurors are still investigating," came Draco's paltry attempt at placation.
"You believe that?" He chuckled bitterly as spoilt tea. "You didn't see him when he came for her during the battle. He's a man obsessed. Surely you remember that? And now that I've had her, he will—"
Draco grimaced and averted his gaze.
"Oh, don't play coy. You knew I was fucking her already. We're all adults, boy."
"You're old enough to be her father," Draco pointed out, to which Lucius grinned.
"Yes and isn't it good for me I'm nothing of the sort. I can indulge freely. Which is precisely why he will be ten times the cruel bear of a man he was before." His grin became a grimace. "I need to get her out of there."
"Unfortunately, you're under house arrest."
"Yes, I know," Lucius replied. "Which is why you're going to help me figure out a plan."
Draco came fully through the flames at that. "Absolutely not!"
"I will not leave her rescue to the Aurors, Draco," his father hissed.
"Two of them are her best friends still living," the young man reminded him, but Lucius pushed that thought away.
"She still can't stand to be around Weasley, and do you reckon I should leave this to Longbottom? Really, Draco, I raised you better than that. Or I thought I did. Where is your sense? Do you want Hermione to wind up killing herself because that is what it will come down to if we wait too long. She will find a way out, we will save her, or she will die. What she will not do is sit and wait and allow him to have his way."
Draco dragged a hand through already mussed blond hair. His eyes were lined and heavily laden, a testament to his own worries. He stared down at the floor, tapped a foot, took a breath, and finally looked up. "Okay. I'll help."
Something loosened in Lucius' chest.
Before he could speak, Draco raised a hand to continue. "Just give me three days. Ah— she is made of strong enough stuff that three days won't be what makes the difference. Give me three days to pull some strings and make some inquiries, and we will plan."
"You must be discreet—"
"Father, I am a Slytherin as much as you," his son reminded him.
Lucius huffed. "And about as subtle as a Hufflepuff. Take your three days, then. I'll be here. But seventy-two hours and not a moment more, you understand?"
Draco was already walking back toward the hearth. "Yes, Father, I understand."
He waited long enough for the fire to flash and his to step through before he turned on his heel toward his writing desk. Lucius had strings of his own to follow.
