Vacivitas

Chapter Five

There's room enough in her heart for all of them.

Pop.

Pinky appears beside her chair, this time clad in a lacy emerald dress. She peers up at Hermione in inquisition.

"Master told Pinky that miss wants a haircut. Does miss want Pinky to do that now?"

Hermione wipes the last of her tears away with a quick hand, offering her a small smile. "Yes, I'd like that very much. Shall we go up to my room?"

"Yes, miss."

Pinky holds her hand out for her to take, and then apparates them up to her room. She's a little more accustomed to the feeling now, and it doesn't make her stomach lurch this time. Once she's seated at the vanity in her bedroom, Hermione waits while Pinky conjures up a stool for her to stand on and begins to do her hair.

While Pinky trims the locced ends, trying to get every last one out, Hermione watches herself in the mirror. She hasn't had the chance to really look at herself since her first bath here in the house and now that she's forced to, she isn't sure how she feels.

She already looks a lot better since she arrived, with slightly fuller cheeks and less sharp angles. Her honey-brown eyes are framed by sparse black lashes and dark brown skin, like they always have been, but she doesn't look like herself. She doesn't look like who she used to be. With the pale silver robes she's chosen to don today, the cascade of kinky brown coils falling from the top of her head to the dip of her waist, and the slight pallor to her flesh, there's no part of her that she recognizes. She looks like the ghost of Hermione Granger, doomed to roam an old house for years to come.

She looks as empty as Malfoy.

–

They sup together in the dining hall.

Today, Pinky has prepared a robust meal bursting with flavor and a hint of sweetness. Hermione has no issue tucking into it, forcing herself not to think about the mince and bread her friends are being fed in the pit. She doesn't have any way of helping them right now, so she figures she may as well enjoy the food she's given.

At the opposite end of the table, Malfoy is the one who isn't eating as quickly. He seems distracted, his gaze far-off and words left unspoken, the silence feeling heavy in the already-oppressive air. If not for how absurd it would be, she would ask him what happened at work.

Who died today?

He takes one single bite, chewing slowly and carefully. Like he wants to savor it. Then, he speaks.

"We'll be having a guest soon."

"Oh?" Hermione is surprised at that. Isn't she supposed to be hidden? "Who is it?"

"The person who held you captive."

For one split, near-panicked second, she wonders if he's sending her back.

"I've thought about it," he responds to her thoughts, "but no. Unfortunately for you, you're mine."

Unease surrounded in a smoky layer of anger begins to swirl up from her heart. He'd told her he had no plans to kill her, just to drink her blood. But now she's wondering what he's playing at. Not for the first time, she's nervous that he might be planning something for her that's worse than draining her of her blood.

"When this guest comes," she asks, "should I stay in my room?"

"No, you needn't do that. He's amicable. A...friend."

"You say that with hesitation."

"He's running an illegal blood supply under the Dark Lord's nose, and I'm a customer. It's difficult to call someone a friend when you each have something on the other. He could ruin me, just as I could ruin him."