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The guards dragged her through the hallways of the Palace Theatre, taking stairs and turning corners that she couldn't possibly memorize even if she was trying.
They turned a corner and found a guard in front of a door. They passed him, and just before turning another corner and taking stairs down, she heard a loud crack and whipped her head around to see a small elf standing in the middle of the hall.
"Cuppy is here for three Lots," he squeaked.
They dragged her around the corner before she could hear any more.
The further down they went, the more often she heard a crack followed by a small voice. Using elves to transport the Lots.
She supposed they weren't "Lots" anymore. Slaves? Concubines?
They pushed her into an empty broom closet. She watched as they murmured the room number to each other, one of them writing it down and tapping his wand on the parchment.
They shut the door and left her in darkness. She tried the door handle, unsurprised when it didn't budge.
She sat in the middle of the floor, hugging her knees to her chest, and waited.
~*~
"Are there any boys at school you like?"
Hermione snapped her eyes to her mother, staring at her over the bowl of cookie dough. "Mum!"
Her mother laughed. "Just asking! What about Harry?"
"Oh, mother, no." Hermione rolled her eyes and grabbed a handful of dough from the bowl. "Harry's... no."
"Or Ron? You spend more time with his family than your own, you know." She bumped Hermione's hip as she placed the ball of dough on the baking sheet.
Hermione frowned. "Ron is infuriating. He's lazy and sleeps too much and he's always late." She huffed and pushed her hair away from her face. "He was so rude to me this past Christmas. I almost didn't forgive him. He's such a child."
Her mother chuckled and opened the oven door. "He'll grow up. I'm sure you'll turn around one day and find he's quite changed." She placed the baking sheet on the rack. "And no one else? Didn't you leave things a bit unfinished with that Vincent?"
"Viktor," Hermione corrected. "Viktor Krum. Yes, we still write but..." Hermione washed her hands. "I guess he wasn't quite my type. He's very handsome. But... I think I like..."
She stopped herself, frowning down at the suds.
"Yes?"
"Lighter hair," she settled on.
Her mother pushed Hermione's curls over her ear. "And is there anyone who does have light hair?" She could hear the smile in her voice.
"There is." Hermione reached for the dish towel and wrenched the material over her hands. "But he's cruel, and poncy, and arrogant." She tossed the towel down. "And I'm a fool."
Her mother kissed her temple. "That handsome, huh?"
Hermione groaned. "His hair is so beautiful, Mum."
Her mother laughed.
~*~
She had no way to count time, but she suspected she'd been locked in the closet for two hours. Strange, because others had been collected as soon as the Auction had ended.
The door wrenched open, blinding her with the light from the hallway. She threw her arm up, shielding her eyes and her body.
"Up."
She crawled to her feet, staring at the outline of Yaxley in the doorway. He stepped aside for her to exit. No house elf in the hallway.
Yaxley scowled at her and led her down the hall, the way she came. She wasn't sure what he had to scowl about. He was 65,000 Galleons richer. Not including whatever price Pansy fetched.
The image of Pansy piercing the belly of that guard floated up. His strangled yell as she bared her teeth at him.
She hadn't seen that guard later either.
They climbed the stairs she'd just descended, and her pounding head and burning shoulder made her wish an elf had appeared to relocate her. It hurt to breathe.
She heard a crack from down a hallway. The elves were still appearing. There were still Lots behind these doors.
Yaxley stopped in front of a door and turned to her. "If I ever see you again, it will be too soon, Mudblood."
She raised a brow at him and gave him a look that said, The feeling is mutual.
He pushed the door open and shoved her inside.
She expected to find Dolohov. Maybe a cot or a chair where he'd force her down and push up her dress.
She didn't expect to find Pansy Parkinson. She hadn't expected to find her ever again.
Pansy seemed to feel the same as she sat up tall from the counter she'd been leaning on, eyes wide and hungry. They were in a dressing room with mirrors on the walls and large bulbs flickering.
Yaxley shut the door, locking them in.
A sharp burning on her left arm. Hermione's mouth opened in a silent hiss of pain. She looked down to where Antonin Dolohov had been inked into her skin. The letters sizzled. She squeezed her fist and watched as the ink lifted, rearranging until a different signature formed on her skin.
D.M.
She blinked down at the letters, her vision swimming. It couldn't be...
Pansy was at her side, grabbing her arm.
"Ha!"
The sound jarred her. Pansy had been silenced the last time she'd seen her. Hermione was on day four.
Pansy turned away, running her nails through her hair. The mirrors allowed Hermione to see that she'd pressed her eyes closed, squeezing her lips together.
"Wow." She spun around to face her. "How much?"
Hermione shook her head, deciding that Pansy didn't need to know.
"Thirty-three thousand?" Pansy guessed, stalking toward her slowly. "Thirty-five thousand?" she said when Hermione didn't answer. "Come on, now. I'm curious. Forty?"
Hermione turned away but was unable to find a wall in which Pansy's face did not reflect back at her. Her own face was almost unrecognizable. Deep circles under her eyes and dry skin. Her jawline stuck out unpleasantly.
"Tell me, Granger," Pansy hissed over her shoulder. Hermione met her eyes and something stormed inside of them, like the moment before thunder cracks. She watched Pansy's blue eyes flood, and she took a slow breath before asking, "More than forty thousand?"
Hermione looked away, shivering. She caught sight of the ink on Pansy's arm.
A matching D.M.
A crack outside their door. The two of them jumped, and Hermione's fingers twitched for a wand that wasn't there.
A squeaky girl elf said, "Mippy is here for Misses Pansy and Hermione."
The door swung open. Yaxley stood guard while a tiny elf in a pink pillowcase looked up at them with bright green eyes.
"Misses! I take you now!"
She smiled and held out her two hands. Like they were going on a pleasant adventure together.
Pansy sniffed, blinking her eyes dry, and saluted Yaxley. "Later, Yax." She took Mippy's hand.
Hermione blinked down at Mippy's outstretched hand, and glanced at Yaxley. It wasn't a trick. She was leaving it all behind.
Her concussion was going to be a mess to handle after Apparition, but hopefully the elf magic would make it better. She took Mippy's hand, and the vision of Yaxley in the doorway vanished with a squeeze.
A heavy May wind assaulted them upon landing. Hermione's hair whipped into her eyes and when she pushed it back, the tall gates of Malfoy Manor pressed down upon her. A chill danced along her flesh, and she felt the pierce of thousands of eyes on her.
Mippy waved the gates open and gestured to come in. The dark hedges beckoned her, ready to swallow her whole. She turned to Pansy – staring at the Manor like she couldn't believe her eyes – then to the hills in the distance. How far would she get if she ran?
"Miss?" Mippy called over the wind.
Hermione stepped through the gates and her arm tingled. She looked down, and saw the tattoo sparkle before returning to normal. She assumed there was a barrier at the gates. She was locked in now.
The gates began to close. Hermione spun to see Pansy, arms wrapped around herself, watching the iron block her out.
Hermione turned to Mippy, pointing to Pansy outside of the gates.
"Miss Pansy stays," Mippy said helpfully. "We go now, Miss."
Mippy tottered up the drive, expecting Hermione to follow. Hermione stood frozen, watching the distance between her and the tiny house elf grow.
They wouldn't let Pansy in? Was she outcast? Banished? Hermione sprinted for the gates, meeting Pansy as she did the same. They pulled and tugged at the iron just as it finished closing. After, Pansy stared at her, then at the sky, as if waiting for lightning.
A whipping pop followed by another. Both girls turned to see two figures in cloaks ten feet away. Pansy scrambled back, grabbing for the iron.
"No!" one of the figures yelled.
Blaise Zabini pulled off his hood; Daphne Greengrass appeared next to him. "Don't cross the threshold," he instructed.
Pansy sobbed, throwing herself into their waiting embrace. Hermione blinked, watching as Pansy was reunited with her friends. She wondered where Ron had ended up.
"We have to be quick," Daphne said. Hermione could barely hear them over the wind. None of them spared her a second glance.
Blaise grabbed Pansy's arm, the one with the tattoo, stretching it out away from her body. Daphne uncorked a bottle and laced her fingers through Pansy's, pulling her hand tight. Blaise pulled from his pocket a scrap of leather, and pushed it into Pansy's mouth. She fought, confused, until Blaise had it between her teeth.
"This is going to hurt," he said to her. Pansy's eyes grew wide.
Daphne started pouring the contents of the bottle over Pansy's arm. Acid. Bubbling and boiling and sizzling at her skin. Pansy's screams stretched out over the wind, echoing down to the hills in the distance. Hermione hung on the bars, watching with wide eyes as Blaise pulled his wand and hissed a dark spell.
Black ink bled out of her arm and onto the grass. It thinned, turning to red. Turning to blood. And he stopped.
Pansy whimpered, tears running down her face. Daphne pressed a cloth to the blistered skin of her arm and pulled off her own cloak, tossing it over Pansy's shoulders. She linked their arms and readied them for Disapparating.
Hermione banged on the bars, rattling them.
Blaise turned around, seeing her like a ghost. She extended her tattooed arm as far as it would go, asking Blaise with her eyes.
He looked at her, then at the Manor. "This is the safest place for you, Granger."
Her lips parted, forming a plea she couldn't hear. Blaise gave her one last look and then took Daphne's other arm.
And they were gone. All she heard was the wind.
Hermione turned, leaning back on the iron bars.
A long stone path, cutting through hedges and leading to a grand manor, devastatingly beautiful in the moonlight despite its sordid history. A small elf stood framed in the doorway.
Was this her home? Her prison?
She looked at her arm again.
D.M. Not L.M. Draco himself had purchased her.
What did he want with her? What had he given up to obtain her?
She couldn't imagine that Dolohov would have parted with her for anything less than an astronomical sum.
The Malfoys were rich; that much had been clear even without the evidence of it staring down at her.
But why spend so much on her?
She couldn't stand here all night. She assumed she would either be forced inside by elf magic, or worse. By one of the residents of Malfoy Manor.
She stepped forward, and began her long walk.
Scabior had been eager the last time she'd made this walk. He'd dragged her behind him like a disobedient dog. She hadn't been able to think, hadn't been able to breathe.
She followed her feet, the doors growing larger in front of her. The tiny elf in the pink pillowcase blinked down at her as she climbed the stone steps, then turned and moved into the house.
Hermione paused at the top and looked back at the gates. Was she going to be punished for Pansy's disappearance? No, she assured herself. It had been by design. The elf said Pansy had to stay, and Hermione was to come inside.
But perhaps she would be punished in other ways. Without Pansy's charms, and legs, and sultry eyes to distract, Hermione was vulnerable. The only choice. She yanked the flimsy gold dress higher up her neckline.
She wondered what it meant that Pansy's tattoo had been removed. Was she free?
"Miss Hermione?"
She looked back down at the elf — Mippy, and stepped inside.
Several large fireplaces to her left. She remembered wondering how quickly she could find the Floo powder two months ago as Harry yelped under Greyback's grip. And just across the entrance hall, there was a closed door that she knew led to a drawing room.
"Miss?"
Hermione turned to see Mippy on the first stair of a massive marble staircase. Grand paintings of the Renaissance stretched to the ceiling, dappling the grey walls with golds and reds and blues.
She'd woken up in her first cell, been dragged by the hair to her second, and strong-armed into her third. And now she was being asked to climb the stairs and walk to her final one.
Mippy's bright eyes blinked at her. Hermione followed the elf up the stairs. They climbed to the third floor, and Hermione's head started to pound again, breathing more difficult after the week in captivity.
Her skin twitched as they passed statues and suits of armor, feeling like eyes were on her. The paintings glared and raised their brows. She swallowed and kept her eyes on the elf until she passed through a stream of moonlight.
Hermione stopped, finding a large window to her right. A pond near the hedges. And white peacocks sleeping on the bank. She'd read about Malfoy Manor before in a book on the Sacred Twenty-Eight. The white peacocks were a favorite of Draco's grandfather, their care passed down the line. The view would be lovely in the daylight. Spring flowers on the bank of the pond, a gazebo to the right.
"Miss?"
She shook her head clear and continued behind Mippy.
The hall was darker now. And she realized if they were on the third floor, she wasn't being taken to her cell yet.
She was being delivered straight to the bedroom.
Her pace slowed, and the elf stopped and came back to her. "Miss is okay?"
Hermione looked down at the sweet little thing. She wondered if Lucius hurt this one too. She probably knew Dobby at one point. And she wondered if Mippy had any idea what was about to happen to "Miss."
Hermione grabbed the side of a credenza, steadying herself. She swallowed the bile as it crawled its way up her throat.
Would it be Draco or Lucius? And which was better? Draco wouldn't be as cruel as his father for certain. He didn't have it in him. But to be treated as his property, as his slave, when she had a history of feelings for him...
She dug her fingernails into her palm, banishing the thought. Why had he bought her in the first place if not to own her as his slave. His whore.
The concussion wasn't healing. She felt small waxy hands on her wrist, and startled at the soft contact.
"Is Miss well?"
She laughed silently, pressing her eyes closed. No, Mippy. Miss is not well.
Her eyes drifted open, landing on a portrait of a Malfoy ancestor, possibly two hundred years ago. Lucius Malfoy's eyes stared down at her, the corner of his lips lifting in a snarl.
And suddenly she remembered how important Lucius's approval was to Draco. How much he idolized his father.
Perhaps she was a gift.
She heaved, vomit splashing down on the stone. The sound loud in the hallway. The first sound she'd made in days.
Mippy had a towel at her mouth, a damp cloth at her forehead. And vanished the sick from the Manor floor. The elf conjured a water glass and begged Hermione to sip. She did, and then left it on the credenza.
She heard the portraits hissing, bickering amongst each other about the proper place for her, about her blood. She concentrated on their voices as Mippy trotted down the hall, beckoning her to follow.
A Mudblood, sullying our sheets.
Such a foul ending—
—said it before, and I'll say it again: that Black girl was the downfall of our entire line.
Lucius was always weak. His son would be, too.
—should be on the ground floor with the elves. Or outside with the garden gnomes.
She completed the journey, and stood in front of a carved wooden door. Mippy was saying something about quickly getting her into bed.
Hermione laughed. Yes, please. As quick as possible. Let's get this over with.
Mippy pushed open the door. And Hermione was met with a lush suite. Cream walls lined with gold. Deep carpets. A sitting area across from the door with a lit fireplace. Two deep wingback chairs in front of the fire. To the right, an arched opening in the wall led to the largest bed she'd ever seen. Cream canopy curtains with flecks of gold hung down from the posts, and more pillows than she could count littered the headboard.
She stepped into the suite, and found bookshelves lining the wall to her right. She didn't let her eyes linger on the texts. They weren't for her.
None of it was for her.
She wondered whose room this was? Perhaps it was just a spare bedroom so she wouldn't defile the sheets in the master suite.
Mippy was speaking to her, but she couldn't hear. The sound of wind rushing between her ears. The elf closed the door. And then Hermione was alone.
The bed looked decadent. And she was so tired. But she refused to sleep in it, to get comfortable in the bed she'd be attacked in.
She moved into the bedroom, running her fingers over the curtains and bedposts. Turning to the bookshelves, she found fiction and non-fiction. Muggle and Wizard. Classics and Modern. Testing a theory, she reached out, placing one finger on the spine of Huckleberry Finn.
Nothing. So she was allowed to touch the books. She ran her fingers over every spine, waiting for something to happen. Nothing.
Her shoulder ached. She held her arm in front of her chest, supporting the weight, and continued through the bedroom suite. On the far side of the bed there was a door. To the bathroom probably. She inched her way toward it, keeping her eyes on the bedroom door.
She pushed open the wood door and gasped, pain squeezing through her shoulder.
Marble and brass everywhere. A clawfoot bathtub in the middle of the room. Lush towels and delicate lighting. She turned and jumped at the sight of her own reflection. She eyed herself critically, pale and thin, still in the gold shift dress Yaxley had put her in.
Her diet of fruit and bread had not been kind to her.
She turned away, leaving the luscious bathroom. The bed called to her again, but she still resisted. Moving back to sitting room, she examined the far wall of windows, light curtains draped over every frame. She pulled one back and found that she had the same view as the window they'd passed. The gazebo and the pond.
The bookshelf puzzled her. She traced the spines until she plucked a book from the shelves, checking the antique clock on the middle shelf. Nearing midnight.
She took A Tale of Two Cities to the chairs near the fireplace, choosing the one facing the door, and she sat, flipping pages, eyes scanning between the words and the door handle.
Madame Defarge was knitting by the time a knock rapped on her door.
Hermione froze. She watched the door handle, waiting for it to turn.
Another knock. This time louder.
She shut her book and stood, moving behind her chair, squeezing the wingback.
The door open swiftly, and Narcissa Malfoy stepped through. Her eyes landed on Hermione, and she stopped.
Hermione's heart beat in her fingertips. She was wandless. And in this woman's home. Her throat choked on the dry air leaving her lungs, and she took a slow breath, ready for whatever this woman wanted to do to her.
Narcissa Malfoy's lips turned up in a gentle smile. "Hello, Miss Granger."
Hermione waited. And Narcissa stared at her, eyes taking in her short dress, her thin skin.
"Please excuse me for barging in." Narcissa gestured to the door. "You did not answer when I knocked and I was concerned that..." She trailed off. "Well, Mippy told me you were ill on your way in."
Hermione took measured breaths, waiting.
Narcissa tilted her head, seeing the book in the chair.
"Dickens is one of my favorites too."
Hermione blinked at her, her stomach twisting in knots. Perhaps she'd be punished for touching the books.
"I apologize I wasn't here to greet you. I had no idea you were on your way until a few hours ago. And I had some business to take care of." Narcissa folded her hands in front of her, examining her. And then her eyes were on the room, taking in the bookshelves like she'd never seen them before.
She looked back to Hermione. "Are you alright, Miss Granger? Are you harmed?"
Hermione took a sharp breath, feeling the air sting her lungs. Her eyes watered with tears she promised herself she wouldn't cry in front of this woman just because she was being kind. She still might take it all back.
Narcissa Malfoy waited. Patient and calm. Hermione swallowed and brought her hand to her throat, tapping a finger against her larynx. She shook her head and turned her eyes down on the carpet.
A moment passed, and then—"Finite Incantatem."
Hermione startled and looked up. Narcissa was replacing her wand into her robes, pressing her lips tight in a way that was so familiar. In a way that Draco did whenever he found fault.
Narcissa took a deep breath and said, "Let's start again? Hello, Miss Granger. I am Mrs. Malfoy. You may call me Narcissa."
Hermione swallowed painfully, lubricating her unused throat. "Hello," she croaked.
Narcissa stepped forward, coming to the other wingback chair. "Are you injured, Miss Granger?"
"I have..." Her voice pulled thin, like strings about to snap. "I have a dislocated shoulder that they reset. And I have a concussion."
Narcissa stared at her for a moment, and then: "Mippy!"
Hermione jumped. The girl elf popped through.
"Missus!"
"Miss Granger has an injured shoulder and a concussion. Please tend to it."
"Oh!" Mippy turned to face her. "Hermione Miss! Tell Mippy you is sick! Tell Mippy and she will fix it!"
Hermione nodded, not bothering telling the elf about her voice.
"And Mippy, have Plumb fix some tea, if you please."
Mippy popped away, returning three seconds later with potions and a drawstring pouch. She directed Hermione to sit in the chair she was gripping with her nails. Narcissa floated into the second chair. An older elf popped in and delivered tea service while Mippy handed Hermione a potion for the concussion, and started spreading a healing paste on her shoulder. As she scurried to place a Dreamless Sleep potion on the bedside table, Hermione glanced at Narcissa, who was sipping her tea patiently. Watching her.
"Would you like some tea, Miss Granger?"
Hermione stared darkly at the teapot, imagining all sorts of dark potions inside. Perhaps Narcissa had already ingested the antidote.
Hermione shook her head. "No, thank you, Mrs. Malfoy." Her voice scratched along her tongue, begging for something warm to soothe itself.
Narcissa seemed to follow her thoughts. Her lips turned down. "I suppose you won't accept any biscuits either?" She sent her a smirk. "Even if I assure you that I have far more interesting methods of dealing with an enemy?"
Hermione flushed and looked down at her lap. Her dress was all the way to the tops of her thighs, and she pressed her legs together, pulling at the fabric.
Narcissa stood. "Night clothes, yes?" She moved to the wardrobe inside the bedroom area, and muttered to herself, "If I'm not mistaken..." She opened the wardrobe. Hermione watched her face and detected a resigned sadness. Narcissa reached into the closet, then paused and glanced at Hermione. She reached a different direction and pulled out a matching pajama set. Satin, it seemed. She laid the satin trousers and long-sleeved button-up pajamas across the bed.
"Get some rest, Miss Granger," Narcissa said. "If you do find yourself hungry, or in need of any more medications, please call for Mippy."
The little elf nodded her head vigorously next to the tea service, ears flopping dangerously close to the sugar bowl.
She would not sleep in that bed. Not until she knew what was expected of her. With her concussion gone, all thoughts were supposed to be rational now.
Mippy cleared the tea as Narcissa moved to the doorway.
"Mrs. Malfoy," said Hermione, her heart thundering. "When am I to expect a visitor?"
Blunt. To the point. Perhaps Narcissa would appreciate that, despite the fact that Hermione may be asking about her own husband.
Narcissa's blue eyes hardened into ice, much closer to her son's hue. She folded her hands delicately in front of her waist.
"Let me be quite clear, Miss Granger." Hermione felt a chill dance down her spine, bracing herself for some kind of harsh fact, something about her place in this world now. "You are now under the protection of Narcissa Malfoy. No one will lay a finger on you in this house."
And with a stern lift of her brow, Narcissa Malfoy swept from the room, taking her doting house elf with her.
Hermione remained frozen for a minute before collapsing in her chair, mind racing. Absorbing.
It could be lies, of course. Something to make her trust the Malfoy matriarch. Something to settle her into security before the attack.
But there were biscuits on the end table. Pajamas that seemed to be hers. A miniature library at her disposal. And a bed. A bed that she was not meant to share.
Hermione stood. Looking around the room again. It was palatial, really. A guest suite meant for someone to be more than comfortable. Meant for someone to find no reason to leave, she realized.
Books, a private bath, a sitting area, and an attentive elf.
It was the nicest cell she could have hoped for.
She peeled the gold dress off, letting it pool on the floor. Slipping into the nightclothes was like cutting through butter, the satin warming to her skin with some kind of charm. She plucked the gold dress off the ground and paced to the fireplace, tossing the fabric inside and watching it burn away.
She approached the bed and paused. Fourteen pillows. That's what it looked like. Creams and golds. She peeled back the sheets, expecting to find a horse's head or some Muggle nonsense. Just a fluffy, welcoming mattress.
She stretched up on her tiptoes, folding herself into the bed, and still nothing happened. The mattress and pillows accepted her weight, like they had been waiting for her for some time.
She looked to the door, almost two room's lengths from the bed. She had a perfect view of it here, against the pillows. She lifted the Dreamless Sleep potion Mippy had left her, uncorked it and sniffed. It smelled like the real thing.
Under the protection of Narcissa Malfoy.
The same Narcissa Malfoy who had snuck into the castle to find her son as the Dark Lord boasted his victory from the courtyard. The same woman who'd talked of escaping, even as her side's army killed the generals from Hermione's.
This is the safest place for you, Granger.
Perhaps Zabini was right. Perhaps all wasn't lost. Only time would tell.
Hermione drank the potion. She set the vial down on the bedside table and lay on her side, eyes catching on a jewelry box lined in brass. Her eyes began to fall shut as she reached out, opening the lid, finding its blue velvet interior empty.