Sleeping on a plush mattress was a luxury Hermione hadn't experienced for 3 years. Not since she had regularly slept at Hogwarts. Not since she'd been able to call her parents' house 'home'.

It'd been a long and tiring time of hiding out at Gimmauld Place with the rest of the Order of the Phoenix. There hadn't been any privacy either, as she'd shared the small attic with Ginny and Luna. Each day had been spent trying to research any method she could on undercutting Voldemort, performing Order duties, or sneaking off with Harry and Ron on routine hunts for horcruxes.

And the search for horcruxes was anticlimactic at best. It was as if they were blindly guessing on which objects they could be, aimlessly going on searches when Harry thought he might have seen something in a dream. Nearly every endeavor had come up empty handed; they'd only recently managed to identify Kreacher's locket as a horcrux, itself.

This was why the trio had snuck into the woods one night, after finally convincing the elderly house elf to . Why they'd taken the sword with them, to destroy the horcrux without any of the Order around to bear witness…

If only Ron, who'd volunteered to wear the locket until their dispatch, hadn't lost his temper.

If only Harry hadn't risen to the insults, shooting back and mentioning he who must not be named, by his actual name. If only Harry had remembered that ruddy taboo…

… It was all like some bad dream, and yet Hermione knew immediately that it'd been real. The cozy bed that she was sleeping in, with enough room to actually stretch out, was giveaway enough. It felt eerie, to be waking up so peacefully, given all that occurred just hours ago. The room was quiet, the stillness of which might only be found in a vacuum. There was no bustling outside, no Mrs. Weasley scolding Neville about the state of the house. No thuds of footsteps moving up the stairs, no screeches of chairs sliding back on wooden floors. All chaos of Grimmauld Place was gone, replaced by complete and utter silence.

Hermione thought back on exactly what had happened to her the night before, and at the same time so much of it was hazy. Yes, she knew she'd been tortured and hurt badly. She knew that Harry and Ron had escaped, ostensibly during a failed attempt at rescuing her. She remembered that Voldemort had read her memories, had seen Grimmauld Place, and that she'd been escorted to this room shortly after.

What she couldn't decipher were the details.

What else had Voldemort seen? What had she been subjected to at the hands of Bellatrix LeStrange? The pain throbbing in Hermione's forearm was expected, and yet she couldn't identify what had caused it. Not even when she sat up to inspect her arm, the raw flesh inscribed 'Mudblood'. Hermione couldn't remember being branded at all, nor what had gone wrong when Harry and Ron had attempted to save her.

Feeling more awake, Hermione looked up to gain her bearings. Her face turned. Even more strange was the fact that she was in such a grandiose bed, when the rest of this room was so foul. Grey walls sporting stains of age surrounded her. Beneath were icy looking floors that appeared twice as old as the walls. There was no window, not even a door. Either the door was under an invisibility charm, or, Hermione presume, the room was only accessible by apparition. The room was lit by enchanted candles, hovering equidistant and spread throughout.

Other than the bed, there was no furniture. No chest of drawers, no shelf, not even a mirror. Hermione felt a bubble of panic building as she realized just how reclused she was, wondering how long she'd been asleep for. It'd felt like mere hours, but with how concealed she was, it could have been days.

If only she had her wand, Hermione could at least conjure a clock to get an idea. "Clocca Advenio," She whispered anyway, feeling morosely unsurprised when nothing happened. After all, wandless spells were things of myths.

That bubble of panic growing even larger, Hermione tried her hardest to swallow it down. She couldn't be starting off this upset, already. She needed to stay strong for as long as she could. But staying calm was an incredible task. She hugged her knees and let out a hiccup, trying her hardest to keep the tears at bay.

Hermione was certainly not naive. And she knew that she was, by all means, entirely screwed.

/

It had been a week since she had been captured, and Granger had been lingering at the back of his mind ever since. He'd been kept busy every evening, dispatched to work with his father and a group of other Deatheaters to search the abandoned base of the Order of the Phoenix. Yet that didn't stop the nagging thoughts, the knowledge that one of the brightest witches of their age was currently imprisoned in his own home. To think she was locked away in solitary confinement, no stimuli or even sunlight to rouse her senses… And meanwhile he were here, rifling through where she had lived for the last few years.

The bright side of Draco's assignment was that he'd been able to feed each night, and he felt much more energetic than he had in a long time. No stomach cramps or brain fog. The lack of hunger was something he hadn't felt in quite some time, and he'd forgotten what it was like to be so satiated. It lifted the air of lethargy from his spirits, leaving him nearly optimistic instead. If optimism were even possible, that was…

All other aspects of this mission were dreadful. Digging through the musky rooms filled with unmade beds, sifting through the dirty laundry and dusty desk drawers. Inspecting even the most minuscule of items for any sign of enchantment or clue. It was Draco's responsibility to sort through it all. To touch it all, no matter how foul an item was.

So far it had been a lot of busy nonsense, nearly everything he'd identified being irrelevant to the cause - not to mention disgusting. And perhaps it was somewhat easy to try and distract himself from the idea that he was rummaging Granger's ex-home, when the paraphernalia he was dealing with were clearly owned by the other inhabitants.

But it was on the most recent night that Draco felt the most discontent. He and Rookwood had been ordered to ascend up to the attic and tackle an entirely new section of the withered house. And it was clear, within seconds, that these quarters had been inhabited by a woman - or, women might be more appropriate. For there were three small beds crammed into this attic, each equidistant from one another.

The room itself had a sweet, feminine scent in the air. Was it perfume or some type of soap, Draco couldn't be certain. The dressing table had miscellaneous beauty products skewed upon its surface. Brushes and hair ties, scattered jewelry. And tubes of makeup that Draco didn't know enough about to identify. Were they called eyelash-liner, or were these things some other silly product instead?

Granger had never been one to wear makeup, Draco thought, his wary eyes hovering over it all. Perhaps these had been the belongings of Lovegood, or one of the other female members of the Order?

He wasn't sure why he'd been so hopeful that he wasn't in Granger's quarters. Yet Draco felt his mood drop when he turned to see Rockwood grinning over one of the beds. Somehow, just in seeing the look on his face, Draco just knew.

"Think I know who was sleepin' in this one, aye?" Rockwood huffed. He was holding something up in the air, almost triumphantly. Between his fingers was such a small strand of hair, and normal human eyes wouldn't have been able to make it out from the distance. But Draco, his vision having sharpened exponentially with his change, could see it clear.

His crystalline blue eyes widening, Draco watched the coily lock as it blew softly in the attic's draft. His gaze slowly moved to the bed that Rockwood was still standing over. The sheets still wrinkled, blanket thrown back…

"Reckon we'll find anything good in here?" Rockwood's scraggly beard bounced as he spoke. And that shite-eating grin was a trial to Draco's patience. But it'd been a rhetorical question, so he didn't bother a response, moving to the chest of drawers instead.

\\

If they wanted her to go mad, they were certainly doing a good job of it. Hermione couldn't even start to wonder how much time had passed. There was no point to even try, not in this horrible cell of sensory deprivation.

Her stomach was rumbling again, as she somberly sat on the bed. As much as she was unaccustomed to the hunger, she had learned that she likely wouldn't be eating any time soon. There was no telling how often a house elf appeared with a dish of food, but the visits were spread out enough for Hermione to know she'd be much further in her famishment before that elf would appear again.

Pop!

What a coincidence and surprise it was to hear the telltale sound of an apparation. Hermione was nearly wistful when she looked up, excited to have her next meal a lot sooner than she'd expected.

Yet the house elf was carrying no tray, and instead moved for her anxiously. "Miss' presence is bein' requested!" It squeaked, its little voice shaking in indisputable fear.

"What?" Hermione began, but the house elf had already grabbed her wrist. And they disappeared together with another loud pop.

The next thing she knew, Hermione was standing in front of the Dark Lord, himself. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she managed to stifle an audible reaction. In her peripheral vision she could make out the members of the Malfoy family, who were standing erect and waiting.

"Look at me," Voldemort hissed.

Was he going to read her mind again? Instantly, Hermione did the opposite of what she was told. Her eyes darted upwards to the ceiling, and she turned her face away.

"LOOK at me, Mudblood!" He repeated. She felt bony fingers dig into her jaw, forcing her head to snap back. She whimpered at the force, trying to pull away, her eyes now clamped shut.

"Imperio…"

A wave of euphoria washed over Hermione, delighted chills running down her spine. Her body immediately relaxed, even as Voldemort continued his crushing grip. Her resolve of resistance gently floated away, and for the first time in ages she felt utterly unbothered. No longer were those hunger pains ripping away at her insides, nor was the anxiety hounding her soul.

Completely at peace, she felt as the sides of her mouth pulled back into a tired grin..

'Open your eyes' She heard a voice whispering in her head. Without a moment of consideration, Hermione obediently obliged…

All air was sucked from her lungs, and she felt her body recoil. Visions were suddenly lashing across her mind, swirling painfully with each pass, making her dizzy at the rapidness of it all. Each memory was so vivid, feeling like a punch in the ribs with each appearance.

Hermione could feel as the memories were shoved away, the force of which knocking the wind out of her each time. And she also felt as others were grasped, pulled to the forefront of her mind from the overwhelming stream.

Ron laughing with Harry as they mocked something she'd said.

Ginny brushing her hair as she sat at the dressing table, as Hermione watched from her bed.

The locket letting out a shrill cry as Ron slammed the blade of Gryffindor's sword into it.

Mrs. Weasley scolding Hermione, telling her that secrets wouldn't be of any help when it came to the war.

Lupin's tired eyes as he looked over the group sitting at the table. "They will attack the safehouse in Kingsbury on Wednesday."

Each recollection was becoming more hazy, a type of foggy overcast. The last thing she saw was the back of her mother's head, Hermione readying her wand to obliviate her. But she could barely make this out, and the words she muttered were muffled into uncertainty…

… Hermione came to, quivering involuntarily. She was on her back, her head turned the side. The floor felt cold against her cheek, and she opened her eyes to see a pair of dark shoes so close to her face. Deep voices spoke above her, though she was too befuddled to understand the words. It felt as if she'd had three-too many butterbeers and was struggling to grasp her surroundings, a nauseating dizzy sensation leaving her pinned against the floor . She was well enough content in doing this, though, unsure if it would be wise to bring attention to herself.

"Very well." A feminine voice said. And Hermione actually deciphered that.

A moment later she felt small fingers clasping her own. And the forceful tugging of the apparition.

.

It seemed that the second they were back in her chambers, the house elf was urging her to eat.

"Surely miss would be liking potatoes with braised beef?"

"N-No," Hermione replied. She shakily reached for the bed before sitting on it.

"Or perhaps creamed spinach with lemon chicken?"

"N-No." Hermione breathed, closing her eyes as she layed back. "Thank you. But… no."

"But Miss must be eatin' somethin'!" The house elf urged. "Dinky's been ordered to feed her, she has!"

"I… I feel quite… quite ill," Hermione exhaled. She was acting on autopilot, still recovering from the violent legilimency that had been inflicted upon her. Hardly able to make sense of what she was being asked, Hermione just knew instinctively that she couldn't do whatever it was. "Dinky… I… I-"

Pop!

Knowing that she was now alone, Hermione sank deeper into the mattress. She took in a painful breath, hoping that swallowing oxygen might soothe her throbbing temples and the discontent in her gut.

Pop!

Footsteps approached her, and Hermione opened her eyes reluctantly. The blonde matriarch of the Malfoy family now stood over her, accompanied by the house elf.

"What are you feeling?" Mrs. Malfoy asked, dispassionately. Her tone was not harsh, nor was it soft, and it only reaffirmed just how little Hermione was cared for in this wretched manor.

Pursing her lips, Hermione made to sit up. But it only built more pressure within, causing her to groan.

"Miss must be tellin' Lady Malfoy!" The house elf's small voice squeaked. "Mis said she was ill! She did!"

"My…" Hermione started. But that swelling sensation in her lungs became too much to bear. Physical instinct overrode any painful trepidation, and Hermione jolted upright, her sickness shooting over the side of the bed.

"Ah!" Dinky yelped, and Hermione knew it had gotten all over the poor elf.

Mrs. Malfoy let out a long sigh, even as Hermione's quivering form fell back into the bed.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered, her eyes closing once more. Relief was washing over her, the strain in her belly easing after the violent release. Even her head was already pulsing less. "Dinky… forgive me…"

"Dinky," Mrs. Malfoy said, before letting out another drawn sigh. "I suppose you'll need to inform Draco. Tell him I requested a vial of nausea potion be administered to our… our guest. As well as a migraine draught. I'm sure she'll be having one of those after earlier."

Draco?

If she was feeling more herself, Hermione would have felt her cheeks tinge at the mention of his name. Oh, she didn't need to be reminded that he was in such close proximity to her. That he had witnessed her capture, had observed her vulnerability moments ago…

… She nearly fell asleep in the minutes of silence. Too lazy to open her eyes, Hermione could not tell if Mrs. Malfoy had left with the house elf. And before long, Dinky was rousing Hermione. Coaxing a vial between her lips, urging her to drink. The potions worked almost instantaneously, washing over her like warm milk. In a moment's time, the nausea was completely lifted, the migraine drifting away. Hermione, so worn from the torment on her body, drifted into a deep sleep without hesitation.

\\

Three sleeps had passed, and Hermione couldn't be certain what that meant in regards to time. What she was aware of was the fact that whenever she stirred, almost as if an alarm had been triggered, Dinky would immediately appear.

"Miss must be eatin'!" The small elf, whom looked malnourished herself, would say.

The first meal had been devoured. Inhaled as if air, Hermione made no effort to prolong the act or savor the taste. Completely at the mercy of her deprived body, Hermione acted completely on the impulse of desperation. Dinky hadn't even disapparated yet, and the house elf's face was bright when Hermione looked up.

"Miss is liking Dinky's cooking!" She declared. "Dinky will be bringing a second helping right away!"

And, just as promised, a few seconds later the house elf had disappeared and then reappeared with another tray. This second serving did Hermione just as well. She ate a little more controlled, and by the time she was finished her belly was blissfully heavy. It was a sensation Hermione hadn't experienced in quite some time. Even before the capture, food had become more scarce around the Order's headquarters.

"Thank you, Dinky." Hermione had breathed, easing back into the blankets.

"Dinky will be returning with more later on!" The house elf promised. And Hermione, despite the awareness that this was all some type of order from Voldemort, couldn't be upset at that.

\\

A popping was what woke Hermione, which was unusual. She didn't think she'd ever been awoken by an apparation since being here. Dinky always made her arrival only after Hermione awoke on her own. Never before.

Dazed, she sat upright, her eyes slowly casting across the chambers. And what - or who - she saw, leaning against the wall, jolted her to complete alertness.

Even under regular circumstances, waking to a strange man would be unnerving. And there certainly was one here now. Hands in his pockets, he almost seemed bored, even from the short time he'd evidently been there. His dark brown hair was cut into a clean style that boasted of working a prestigious office job, with chiseled cheekbones that were even more prominent in the shadows of the candlelight. His body was clad with the dark cloaks that were hallmarks for the deatheaters, though he had an air of awkwardness under the material. As if they outfit had been forced upon him.

Feeling more herself after multiple consistent meals, Hermione clutched her blanket defiantly. Even as the man stepped forward, one of his hands retreating from a pocket to reveal a long wand, her eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?" She asked - no, challenged - despite knowing she had absolutely no way of protecting herself.

"What will you do if I enter your mind?" The man didn't bother answering her question. His voice was hushed. Hermione found this interesting, considering how isolated they were. She was certain the room was soundproofed, so why bother with quietness?

"Wha-"

"When I inflict you with legilimency, what will you do to keep me out?" He rephrased, now standing over her.

Raising an eyebrow, Hermione's brain wracked. She had gone through a phase a year prior, in which she'd attempted desperately to get Harry to teach her the practice of occlumency. He had refused, always stating he had no desire to inflict such a state on her. Not wanting to violate her head. After all, he'd said, he wasn't even practiced in legilimency.

"Well?" The man pressed, his wand tracing her jawline.

"I…" Hermione said. She shivered at the feel, her brain skimming back to the few writings she'd been able to find on the matter. The books she'd read were vague, only brushing on occlumency just enough to define it. Yet there was one entry she'd come across that went into more detail on the general practice - if only a little. "I will close my mind. Clear it of as many thoughts as possible."

"And then?"

"I… I-"

"Legilimens."

The thoughts began to swarm, in a rapid cycle just as the previous assaults, though not nearly as forcefully. Yet she was still unable to prevent it as he flipped through the images, one being pulled to the forefront…

"It's perfect", Hermione was saying, looking up from the gift bag in her lap. Sitting on the floral couch that she had grown up with, she was met with the smiles that always delighted her to see. "Thank you!"

"I can't believe my baby is already going to be 16." Her blonde mother replied, eyes crinkled warmly. "We always miss being able to celebrate with you."

"Right," Her father chimed, his dark bushy hair slicked back. "Ever since starting at that school, you're always away on your birthday."

That school was how her parents always referred to Hogwarts. Hermione was used to it by now, though It was an ever present reminder of how split her life was. With each passing year she became more immersed in the wizarding world, and they would never truly know her again. Never wholly, nor completely…

The memory was thrown, another coming into focus…

"I don't give a damn what you think!" Harry was snarling, his face just inches away from Ron's.

"Harry! Ron! Please just stop!" Hermione was urging. She'd jumped up from the bed she'd been sitting on, rushing to get between the two.

"Shut it, 'Mione!" Ron spat, turning on her. "You're thinking it all the same! Don't act so diplomatic now!"

"Ron-" She tried, but he wouldn't let her.

"We thought Dumbledore left you with more info!" He barked, his attention now on Harry once again. "What the bloody hell were you doing with him all that time?! Having a laugh?!"

"I never said I had the answers!" Harry snapped. "I told you both this wouldn't be easy!"

"But we at least thought you had a plan!" Ron yelled. "Some type of idea, so we wouldn't be wanderin' about aimlessly like a bunch of prats!" ~

The memory was gone, the thoughts no longer swirling. Hermione came to just a moment later, blinking in the candlelight of this wretched cell. Despite how different this had felt - it had almost been gentle - she'd still fallen to her back. Luckily she'd been in bed.

"You need to clear your mind." The man was saying, even as she sat up. "I thought you just said you knew that."

"I…" She sputtered, blinking the daze from her eyes. "I tried, but-"

"As you've surely come to realize by now, you aren't going to be given the benefit of notice before you're legillimized." The man grunted, exasperated. "You have to be prepared at all times!"

"Why?" Hermione breathed. She was astounded that he seemed so upset on the matter. "Why are you here? Who are you?"

This simple question had the effect of repellent. Instantly the man backed away. "I'll be back soon." He growled. "You likely don't have more than a few weeks before He returns for another go."

"But-"

"Practice clearing your mind until next time."

And then he hurled something at her. He was gone with a pop while the object was still in mid-air. Even as Hermione caught it, she was still looking at where he'd just been, wishing she could ask him about twenty more questions.

Dejected, she looked down at what he'd thrown, and she gasped.

In her lap was her beloved stuffed rabbit that she'd spent the last 15 years sleeping with, nearly every single night. Having been left behind in her bed at Grimmauld Place, she'd presumed she'd never see it again, and its loss was something she'd been lamenting deeply.

Along with the rest of her few belongings.

How? The question came to mind, but for only the smaller part of a second. Clearly the stranger had been there. Likely as part of the crew that had certainly been ordered to scavenge the Order's base as soon as its location was learned.

But, how?

How did he know this was hers? Moreso, how could he have known she'd have an interest in getting it back?

And… why?

Why was he giving her Occlumency pointers?

Why did he bother to bring the rabbit to her?

… Why should he care?