Chapter 2 - Day Two
That evening, a guard arrives and passes through a metal food tray in a slot at the base of each cell door. No words are exchanged between the guard and his prisoners. Hermonie wants to ask the guard what time it is, but the food is dropped so quickly that he is gone before she can acknowledge his presence. She ate her meal silently while sitting on her cot with the tray precariously balanced on her knees. Draco and Hermione have not spoken since he ended her opportunity to ask questions. The only noise that could be heard between their last conversation and their meal was the shared pacing around the cell and the opening and closing of a small wooden door that matched the door to the bathroom in her cell. The anger she heard in Draco's voice the last time they spoke meant she didn't attempt to push the conversation again.
The passing of time left Hermonie only with her thoughts. She would give anything not to be stuck in her head; she was so used to having Harry and Ron bounce ideas off. Even if they didn't understand what she was saying, their scattered acknowledgements of listening offered her the validation she needed to keep thinking. Without them, she had to trust that her mind was working with enough capacity to form coherent thoughts. Whenever Hermonie's thoughts finally moved away from her neighbour, a slight sound inevitably brought her thoughts back to him. What does nine months of imprisonment do to a man like Draco Malfoy? She had never perceived him as a survivor. When she reflects on their time together at Hogwarts, she remembers him always surrounded by people. He never seemed to be without anything, whether that be money, food, or attention. She felt all he needed to do in life was make a request, and it would be fulfilled without resistance. Whether her opinions of him were correct didn't matter because even a man with nothing couldn't live imprisoned without consequence.
Tired of trying to solve the enigma that was Draco Malfoy, Hermione rose from her cot and placed the metal tray in front of the slot in the cell door. She began to pace around the small cell quietly and categorise the information she had. She knew she was in Malfoy Manor; she knew it was March 1998. She knew Harry and Ron hadn't been captured because she hadn't heard them in the dungeon. She knew that Draco Malfoy was in the cell to her left. She knew they were the only two people down here because no other noises could be heard. She knew the guard would bring her food at least daily. The list of unknowns heavily outweighed the list of knowns. She didn't know where the dungeon entrance was in the Manor. She didn't know the time of day because there were no visible windows. She didn't know if anyone would be looking for her or if anyone knew she was alive.
She knew nothing about the design of the cells, if they were warded by magic or if escape would even be possible. She didn't know if Harry and Ron could finish the Horcrux hunt without her, and the most important thing she didn't know was how long the Death Eaters would let her live. Hermonie needed a plan but didn't know where to start with so little information. Draco probably had some of the answers she needed, but she was unsure if he would be willing to talk to her again. If she were to survive, she would need to push past the feeling of anxiety she felt at requesting his help. She didn't need Draco to like her, and even if his answers were shrouded in cruelty, they would still be answers. She was past the point of indecision; if she wanted to escape, she would have to talk to him. He couldn't ignore her forever, and his need for human connection would eventually trump his hatred towards her. With the decision made, Hermonie stood in the middle of her cell and braced herself for a conversation she didn't want to have.
"Malfoy?" Her tone was patient; if she wanted a response, she would need to speak on his terms.
She waited, but no response was given. No sound was heard. Instead of giving in to his stubbornness not to acknowledge her, she pressed on.
"I just have a few questions about what will happen now that I'm here. How often will I be fed?" She tried to temper her voice, containing the anxiety she felt from being ignored.
She heard the cot in the cell next to hers shifting. Draco seemed set on ignoring her, but she was known for her persistence.
"How often do the guards come and check on us?"
Silence.
"Where in the Manor is the dungeon?"
Silence.
"There is a shower head in my bathroom, but I can't find a way to turn it on. I also can't seem to find any towels?"
Silence.
"If I ask for a change of clothes, do you think I will get some? It's just that mine are covered in blood and dirt from when I was captured. I'm not sure whose blood it is, actually. Some of it is definitely mine, but I can't tell you who the rest belongs to. Oh Gods, I hope it's not Ron's blood or Harry's. They didn't look hurt when I last saw them, but they could have gotten hurt while we were running..."
Now that Hermonie was speaking, she couldn't stop; all the thoughts she had tried desperately to keep in her head left her mouth without a second thought. She didn't care that Draco wasn't responding anymore. She was trapped in a ramble of words that seemed to have no end.
"If I answer your questions, will you stop speaking?"
His voice interrupted her outpouring. She stood silent momentarily, processing what she had done and cursing herself for being so weak.
"Yes." She spoke in a whisper of shame.
Draco sat up from his cot where he had been lying, trying to ignore the infuriating sounds of Hermonie investigating her cell. His food lay uneaten on the floor. Since her arrival, his desire for survival had withered. Every move she made, and every sound she created echoed around the hollow vastness of the dungeon walls and hit him directly in his chest. The sudden heaviness of his body made exercising hard, and with nothing left to do, he resigned to just lying in his cot and attempted to sleep. When he was close to succeeding in his goal, Hermonie found her voice. He thought if he ignored her, she would eventually get the message and leave him alone. He was naive to think this would be the case. Hermonie had never known when to give in. By the time she started to lose control of her words, Draco realised he had no choice but to reply. The anxiety behind her words made it hard for him to breathe, and he didn't know how many good deeds he had left in him if she were to have another panic attack. The questions she was asking were easy enough to answer and didn't give her any information that would put him in harm's way. If she had been patient enough, she would have learned the routine in a couple of days, but she showed no sign of being patient.
"A guard comes twice daily. In the morning, with your first meal, they will bring towels, a change of clothes and new linen for your cot. They will turn your shower on, and you will have approximately ten minutes of hot water. A guard will come again in the evening with a second meal and take the dirty linens away. The guards won't speak to you, and they won't answer your questions." He spoke slowly to make sure she understood and wouldn't ask again. He debated answering her question about where the entrance to the dungeon was but decided it would be better not to aid in her escape attempts.
Hermione gave Draco a slightly muffled sound of acknowledgement in return, and he returned to lying on his cot, confident that there would be no need to continue the conversation now that he had answered her questions.
Embarrassment washed over Hermonie at her previous outburst; she planned to have a brief, calm conversation with Draco, get her needed answers and return to ignoring him. Instead, she panicked like always and relied once again on Draco stepping in to stop her spiral. If she would be here for a while, she would have to learn how to survive without his input. It didn't matter that she had never learnt to be alone. She would have to teach herself now and escape without him. Hermonie receded to her cot and lay supine, looking at the intersecting stone above her. Her hands started to shake, and she placed them under her legs in an attempt to hide her fear from herself.
She tracked the divots and chips of the stone with her eyes, pretending they were stars. She counted the stars and then counted them again. Her breathing slowed to a steady rhythm that she hoped would eventually lull her into sleep. With every new divot and chip she counted, the emotions she was holding at bay rose from her chest and engulfed her. The stagnant air held her sadness over her like a dark cloud threatening rainfall. She tried to blink the heaviness away, but each blink brought about a new dampness that trickled down her cheeks, caught by the locks of her untamed curls. The stars became blurry, and she could no longer count how many there were. The faster she blinked, the quicker the tears fell until she was crying unrelenting sobs distant to her ears. She could no longer hear the noises she was making. The tears were no longer hers. She became a conduit for all the bodies that had suffered in the cell before her, the souls that were doomed once they stepped foot in the manor. She cried for her past, her present and her future. She cried for the boy in the cell next to her. She knew he didn't deserve her tears but would give them anyway. She would allow herself these tears, a moment to acknowledge her existence and what little it meant to the world now. She would relieve the cloud of its pressure and then banish it from the space above her where it hung. If Draco had come to terms with his future as a prisoner, she would offer him no hope. She would offer him no conversation if he didn't want to talk. As the tears dried to her cheek, she found her resolve return as her vision cleared. If she wanted to escape alive, she would do it alone. She could promise this because she had nothing left to give but a promise. Sleep eventually found her in the cold darkness of the cell, relieved that it was something she could no longer run from.
Draco listened to Hermonie's cries as they tore down the walls of his cell. He heard the desperation in her breath to release the feelings of anguish she carried. He envied her freedom to show emotion without hiding. She did not attempt to silence her cries; he knew she wanted him to hear them. It felt like a warning of what was to come, a shout before a battle. A display of everything she had that he didn't. A reason to cry, a reason to let go and continue fighting. He wanted to be angry with her for the intrusion; he wanted to scream that it wasn't polite to share such sorrow with a stranger, but he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would drown in her tears, and he was tired of swimming to the surface.
So, he quietly lay supine on his cot and looked at the stone above him. He noted where each stone interlinked with the next and imagined applying just enough force to cause the stones to topple down around him. He would not move as the fallen stone gave way to a night sky. The stars greeting him like an old friend, ushering his soul to join them from where he once descended. A name taken from the sky only to be gifted to a boy who did not understand the weight of it. What would he say once he got there? I'm sorry for what I've become. I'm sorry you gave me the gifts of the universe, only for me to hide from them behind stone and iron bars. Send me back to earth, give me a new name, and I promise to honour it this time. Alas, the sky does not accept apologies. It doesn't offer second chances. As Hermione's cries settled and her breathing mirrored the rhythm of sleep, Draco shed a single solitary tear. A peace offering that he would never speak. A moment only he would understand. How lonely it was to be the only person that understood.
Draco woke in a startle at the sound of boots hitting stone in the distance. He heaved himself up, noting the sweat that clung to his body and sheets. He can't remember falling asleep and doesn't know the last time he slept for so long. The guard performs his duties in silence, and Draco hears the familiar sound of the shower starting. He rushes out of bed to reach the water. Showering is the only luxury he is afforded; to miss even a second of it would be wasteful. As he opens the door to his bathroom, he doesn't hear Hermonie rise from her sleep. He knew he shouldn't engage, but after hearing about the dirt and blood she was covered in, he knew she would really want a shower. Deciding quickly not to waste any more time, he shouts for her.
"Granger, you better get up quick if you want a shower!"
Without waiting for her response, he quickly strips his clothes and stands under the refreshingly warm stream of water. He scrubs down quickly with the bar of soap he has been given and savours the way the water washes away from the emotions from the night before. He does not move once clean, using the total time allotted to stand under the water. The shower is the only time he allows himself not to think. From the beginning, it became a moment of meditation for him. To stand under the water, eyes closed, disconnected from the world around him. He would have usually completed a full workout before his shower, which made the event more satisfying, but he could not deny what genuine sleep has done to lift his mood. Although today would be the same as the ones before, he was different. Not in a way that would be obvious to anyone else, but a new lightness to his body suggested something had changed.
Draco's voice shocked her awake, and a second of confusion left her feeling like she had awoken in a foreign land where Draco Malfoy was doing her a favour. She quickly registered the sound of the shower and threw the blanket to the floor, racing to reach the shower before it disappeared. She hadn't heard it turn on and wasn't sure how long she had left, so she threw her clothes to the floor and quickly stepped under the warm water. Looking around for soap, she found one small bar perched on the basin's edge. I guess shampoo would have been too much to ask for, she grumbled internally. She did her best with what she was given, so Hermonie scrubbed her body and attempted to create a lather in her hair. When she finally felt clean, Hermonie stood under the water, hoping it would never end. When the water stopped too quickly for her liking, Hermonie felt the chill of the cell settle into her body. She promptly padded out of the bathroom to locate the towel left for her. Wrapping it around herself, she pulled the clothes from the floor. She was given simple black slacks and a black button-down shirt. If she had to guess, these were the same clothes given to Draco, but only transfigured to her size. She thanked the gods when she located clean underwear and socks, her shoes being the only thing left of her in the cell. She dressed to find the clothes were still a little big on her and rolled up the hem of the pants and sleeves to compensate. She wrapped the towel around her wet hair, vowing to deal with it properly after she had eaten. Hermonie ignored the sounds from her neighbouring cell in the flurry of showering and getting dressed. Only then, with the scrape of a spoon, was she reminded of the kindness he had shown her this morning. She took her meal tray over to her cot and sat crossed leg with the tray in front of her.
"Thank you... for waking me up." Her voice surprised her, raspy and dry from a heavy sleep.
The spoon stopped against the tray, and Draco swallowed hard before clearing his throat.
"You're welcome." His reply was curt, as he wasn't expecting her thanks.
This is good, Hermonie thought. They could be polite. It's not like she spent a lot of time hating him. He was mean to her in school, but who wasn't mean to her in school? He was a Death Eater, well at least, she thought he was a Death Eater, but he couldn't have caused too much harm, having been locked away for nine months. Hermonie was briefly accosted by something like hope. What if Draco failed to kill Dumbledore because he wasn't a Death Eater anymore, so they locked him up for knowing too much information about their cause? If this was the case, then he might help her escape. What better person to be imprisoned with than someone who grew up in the Manor she found herself in? This was a dangerous line of thinking, and Hermione knew she was getting ahead of herself; all he had done was tell her to shower. It's not like he told her where the keys to the cell were hidden. She sighed and began to eat before her food got too cold.
Draco finished his meal while Hermonie's voice thanking him swarmed his thoughts. He repeated it in his head, hoping he remembered her voice's inflexion correctly. When was the last time someone thanked him for something? The better question was, when did he last do something deserving of thanks? He hadn't spoken to anyone but himself in the last nine months, but before that, his memory drew a blank. It annoyed him how much he liked hearing it. When had he become so soft that a simple Thank you would send him into a headspin? Gods, he needed to get out of this prison cell. Especially now, he was thinking of new ways to earn another comment from her. He couldn't speak first, but replying wouldn't mean any harm if she spoke again. As long as he wasn't sharing any information that could put him at risk, the Dark Lord couldn't punish him for simple conversation. If he had to defend himself, he would say that any man would speak to a muggle-born after nine months of isolation. If that fails, he could claim insanity, although, at this point, he doesn't think it would be a claim, more a fact.
After she finished eating, Hermione stripped her cot and placed all her dirty linens and food tray by the gap in the door. She remade her bed with clean linens, taking extra time to smooth out any wrinkles in the black wool blanket. Looking around the cell, she picked up a small rock and scratched two lines into the wall. Hermonie knew the most important thing she needed to do was keep a routine. She wasn't particularly fast or strong, but she was brilliant. If she maintained her sanity, she could escape. Her first plan of action was to investigate her cell and identify any weaknesses or magic. Starting in the back right corner, she began slowly tapping each stone. This process took hours, and she was particularly thorough; if a stone produced a strange noise, she would investigate it extra. When she reached just over two-thirds of the stones in her cell, she was interrupted by an irritated voice.
"By Gods, what are you doing over there?"
Hermonie stopped her trapping and huffed at the comment.
"I'm trying to discern any weaknesses."
"You're doing my fucking head in, that's what you're doing." Draco spat out.
"Just because you've given up trying to escape doesn't mean I have." Hermonie grumped in reply.
"Do you really think there will just be a loose stone you can squeeze through? I thought you were smarter than that." Draco laughed.
"I preferred it when you were just ignoring me." Hermonie abandoned her trapping and sat on her cot.
"And I preferred being imprisoned alone," Draco said as he stood up from his cot.
Draco stretched out his body. For the last few hours, he had done nothing but sit and listen to Hermonie tap away, praying it would stop so he wouldn't have to tell her to stop. When he couldn't take it anymore, he knew he would have to speak to her again. Speaking to Hermonie brought about strange feelings for Draco. He was uncomfortable when she spoke but more uncomfortable when she didn't. After so many months of silence, he craved conversation. Draco had always been a social person, the Manor was usually busy with house elves, tutors and other pureblood families. At Hogwarts, he was never left alone. He enjoyed the attention and the distraction it brought. His imprisonment was the first time he had had to endure his own company; upon reflection, he was terrible company.
For the first few months, he could only think about everything he had done in his life that led him up to this moment. Replay and scrutinise every action, every word, every decision. He blamed Voldermort, then Dumbledore, then his tutors and his father. Finally, when he realised that none of them could fully bear the blame, he blamed himself. He knew that he could have stopped what was happening at any point in his life and walked away. Draco couldn't recall a time when he fully believed in blood purity; with each tangential rant from his father, he believed it less. He didn't not believe it because he held a strong moral compass. He was just smart enough to see the holes in the theory. He had learnt of many great witches and wizards who were not pureblood. If he hadn't had to memorise all of the pureblood families by name, he couldn't have pointed to a single one of them at school. His lack of belief didn't inform his actions, however. He knew what his father expected of him and what his friends wanted from him. Draco was nothing but a performer. He woke every morning, adorned his costume and mask and ended each day with a standing ovation.
That didn't stop him from being curious. On occasion, when the Slytherin group managed to sneak some fire whisky into the dorm, with his newfound confidence, he would try to figure out what his friends really thought of pureblood ideology. He was usually met with laughter like it was a great joke they were all a part of, and with his confidence fading, he would laugh along like that had been his intention. He didn't dare ask his mother, afraid his doubt would make its way back to his father. He knew better than to ask questions to the wrong people. The Manor had eyes and would whisper secrets to those who listened.
Draco had begun to tire of pacing his cell and was unnervingly restless. Now he knew he had someone to converse with, his thoughts grew boring. He wanted to speak to Hermonie. The minimal conversation they engaged in was exhilarating. Every time she spoke, it was like a hit of morphine to a dying man. It was dangerously becoming an addiction he couldn't fight. Every noise she made was a reminder of the relief just waiting for him on the other side of the wall. He opened his mouth and closed it again. What would he say? Why did he even want to talk to her? Mere hours ago, he cursed at the fact that she was even there. Draco ran his hands down his face as he stood staring at the wall outside his cell. He really was losing his mind.
Admitting defeat, Draco cleared his throat before he spoke.
"What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be out there trying to save the world with your sidekicks?"
Hermonie jumped slightly as Draco's voice interrupted her thoughts. She slowly stood from her cot and walked to the middle of the cell, where she could see his shadow on the wall before her. Confused by his question, she replied with annoyance.
"I got captured, obviously."
"I may have been locked away for nine months, but they didn't remove my brain, Granger", Draco spoke sharply.
Hermonie tutted at his arrogance before replying.
"I see those nine months of isolation didn't teach you politeness."
"You didn't answer my question." Draco could see Hermonie's shadow place its hands on its hips, and he smiled to himself. He was suddenly very excited by the prospect of arguing with her.
"I thought we weren't asking questions?" Hermonie said with cheek.
"No, I said you couldn't ask any more questions. I can ask as many as I like."
"And what if I don't want to answer." Hermione smiled as she spoke.
"Suit yourself." Draco shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant. "We can just go back to silence if you like."
Hermonie didn't want to go back to silence. The silence was deafening to her. She had spent all her waking moments sharing a space with another person. When it was silent, she thought about Harry and Ron and the danger they were in—the tasks they had to face without her. Hermione sighed deeply, accepting that she would need to answer his questions if she wanted this conversation to continue.
"We were..." Hermonie stood for a moment, wondering how much information she should divulge. Draco was locked in a cell, but he was still the enemy, and she didn't know if anyone was listening to their conversations.
"We were working on something away from Hogwarts, and snatchers found us. We all ran, but I tripped. They caught me, and I told Harry and Ron to run, and they did."
Draco laughed.
"What's so funny." Hermonie barked.
"You risked your life for over six years to save the golden boy, and the moment yours is in danger, he runs."
Hermonie reeled at that comment.
"Of course, you wouldn't understand. It's not like you think about anyone but yourself."
Draco went stiff. The bite of her words caught him off guard.
"Oh, because you know so much about me."
"I know enough." Hermione huffed.
Draco moved closer to the iron bars, eyeing the form of her shadow. He placed his forearms between the bars, resting his weight.
"Wise Granger, please enlighten me with your psychoanalysis of my character," Draco spoke in a mocking, formal tone.
Hermonie watched Draco's shadow grow larger as he approached the bars. She caught a flash of white from the corner of her left eye. She walked closer to the bars and turned to see his hands protruding from the cell. She studied his long fingers as they stretched outwards and hung casually. His hands looked so delicate in comparison to the harsh environment they found themselves in. His shirt was neatly buttoned at his wrist, drawing attention to the prominent veins that spiderwebbed the back of his hand. She continued to watch his fingers make lazy movements as she answered his question.
"You're a posh rich boy who has had everything handed to him on a silver platter. You are bored, and you are mean, and you're used to getting your way. If you say jump, people say how high?"
"Jump"
Hermonie rolled her eyes and watched Draco's hand return behind the bars.
"Looks like you have me all figured out then," Draco said casually.
"Am I Wrong?" Hermonie asked.
"No, I think you have me spot on." But Hermonie had never been so wrong about something in her life.