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She woke slowly, her body trying to drag her mind back into sleep for a few minutes. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept in a real bed. The cots in the tent weren't as comfortable as this, and Harry snored so loud she was afraid he'd rupture the Protection Spells—
Her eyes snapped open, staring at an unfamiliar wall in an unfamiliar bed. She hadn't moved in the night, and she still lay on her side, facing the empty potion bottle. She bolted upright, searching the room. She was alone. Daylight streaming in through the large windows and cream curtains.
She slipped out of bed, peeking around corners to make sure there was no one hiding. Slithering into the bathroom, she used the toilet, splashed water on her face. The large clawfoot tub in the center of the marble floor called her to slip into the suds and drift away.
She shook her head, blinking away the elegance of the suite and refocusing. Weapons. Exits.
The drawers in the vanity held lush towels and hair potions. She found a tail comb with a sharp end for styling and pocketed it.
Still, no one intruding upon her space when she exited the bathroom. She checked the clock on the bookshelf. Barely 7AM.
The wardrobe called to her as she remembered Narcissa's expression upon opening it. Some kind of displeased acceptance. Hermione pulled the doors open, finding hangers upon hangers of clothing — an extension charm widening and deepening the space. To the left, a second pair of pajamas like the ones she had on, only in flannel. A few long nightdresses, followed by shorter ones. None too flashy. Then robes upon robes upon robes of varying colors, lengths, and fabrics. At the end, jumpers and other informal wear. She pulled the drawers at the base of the wardrobe and found jeans.
Hermione frowned. What kind of guests did the Malfoys usually have in this room? Surely no one who needed denims. She opened the top drawer on the right. Cotton knickers in pale shades. A few bras in the same. A few sports bras.
Whoever it was who usually stayed here was prepared for everything. The bottom drawer held shoes for all weather; trainers and boots.
She let her fingers drift across the fabric of the robes as she pushed the drawers back in, and she jumped when a thought crossed her mind.
Was this Pansy's room?
She glanced at the bed with its creams and golds. She looked to the bookcase with its Muggle books. She took in the fabrics in front of her, and cataloged the knickers.
None of this screamed Pansy Parkinson. Pansy wore red lipstick to the breakfast table, and never needed to reapply throughout the day. Pansy would never be caught dead in pale colors, especially her knickers. And Pansy once asked Daphne Greengrass in third year if Muggles knew how to read. Hermione knew she wasn't joking. No, this wasn't Pansy's space.
She shut the drawers, memorizing the placement of the belts, and moved to the windows, finally pushing aside the soft material and peering out into the grounds. Like she'd guessed, the pond sparkled from this view. The gazebo attracted the early morning fog like bubbles in a glass, and just beyond the gates that encompassed the Manor, she could see the sun dappling the ground. Just to her left, a balcony attached to her sitting room.
Hermione blinked. There must be a door. How far was the drop? How much length would the curtains and bedsheets give her?
The door handle rattled, and Hermione spun as Lucius Malfoy entered her suite, eyes landing on her at the window. She clutched the curtains in her fingers, one hand sliding slowly to the comb in her pocket.
Lucius's eyes were abruptly pulled from her as he looked around the room, gaze landing on the bookshelves, the sitting area. He paused on the bed, sheets twisted from her sleep. His grey eyes snapped to her again.
His lips pulled up into an echo of a smirk. "Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Miss Granger."
She felt her heartbeat pressing into the gauzy curtains, her fingers curled. He stood between herself and the door. And if there was a way onto this balcony, how quickly could she sprint out and hurtle over the edge. Grass or stones below?
He tilted his head, examining her, waiting for a response that didn't come. His eyes flicked over her satin pajamas, over the rumpled bedding.
"I see you've made yourself quite at home."
He moved into the room, strolling between the wingback chairs, examining the carpets, moving to the drapes.
Where Narcissa was cautious and warm, Lucius was decisive and cold, inscrutable. He slithered into the sleeping space, eyes turning over the bed curtains and landing on the wardrobe, still open from her investigations. He pulled the doors open wide and just like his wife, an impossible expression spread across his lips. She'd never seen someone frown a smile.
"All the correct size, I presume," he muttered.
Hermione guessed that Lucius Malfoy was not the kind of man who muttered things aloud by accident.
He shut the wardrobe with a click. And turned to her, standing between her and the bed. The comb teeth clicked between her fingertips.
"Sixty-five thousand Galleons," he said, drawing the number out like a question. But she knew it wasn't. "My, my, Miss Granger. What a handsome prize you make."
He wanted her to interact with him. She swallowed her terror, and decided to play his game. "Were you in attendance last night, Mr. Malfoy?"
He pulled a deep breath through his nostrils, the hint of a sneer on his lips. "I have no interest in slave-trading. I have enough house elves." He clasped his hands behind his back and looked out the window at the view she had been enjoying.
She remembered strong arms, grabbing her around the waist and lifting her, taking her somewhere. If Lucius hadn't been there, it had been Draco. Where would he have taken her?
And why did he want her in the first place? And how had he obtained her?
She looked up from the thoughtful gaze she had been sending the carpets to find Lucius Malfoy still before her, watching her. His eyes swept over her body, and she shivered, glad to be rid of the gold dress and in sexless nightclothes.
"How do you like your accommodations, Miss Granger?" His eyes pierced her, his words digging into her skin.
She wondered if he wanted her to misbehave. If he wanted her to spit at him and tell him she'd prefer a cell. To act like a Mudblood beast. She looked into his grey eyes, the same grey eyes that had sneered at her for seven years.
She may be under Narcissa Malfoy's protection, but she was also under Lucius Malfoy's roof.
"It's lovely, Mr. Malfoy," she responded icily. "Thank you for having me for a visit." She lifted a brow at him.
He returned the expression, a slow curl to his lips. "Any time, Miss Granger. The weather is lovely in the autumn," he said, voice lilting, teasing. A pause, and then his features hardened. "I do hope you'll still be here then."
A chill crossed her skin, but she was careful not to blink. She burned to ask him questions. Why am I here? Why did Dolohov give me up? What am I expected to do? But she knew she wouldn't get the answers she wanted. Just more games.
He stepped toward her, now only several paces away, and extended his hand. "Might I have whatever's in your pocket?"
She swallowed, and he saw it. He smiled.
She withdrew the comb and placed it into his waiting hand. He grinned, and then broke the sharp tail off. He handed her back the benign piece, looked to her hair, and said, "You'll need this."
She scowled at him. Such strong resemblance to his son and the easy way his insults would flow. Her fingers curled around the comb, teeth cutting into her palm.
"My son paid a heavy price to obtain you, Miss Granger." His eyes traveled down her jaw, down her neck. She shivered. "Do try to show your... gratitude." He whispered the word across the air like a kiss against her skin. He smirked at her, and swept to the door.
Her eyes burned into his back, and she thought of Parvati and the Baxter girl. Penelope Clearwater curled in a corner refusing to eat. The slice to her abdomen. The last glimpse of Ginny as she was dragged away.
She couldn't stop the words. Like bile creeping up. "My gratitude?"
He paused with one hand on the door. "Of course, Miss Granger." A raised brow. "You have been saved."
He exited, shutting the door behind him.
~*~
Relying on Narcissa Malfoy's supposed protection wasn't going to get her anywhere. It wasn't protection she needed—it was a way out.
After she was sure Lucius wouldn't be returning, she pulled Hogwarts, A History off the shelves, and sat in the chair facing the door, reading absently while keeping an eye on the entrance.
At 8AM on the dot, a knock sounded from the door. Before Hermione could release her tense shoulders or contemplate what horrors could await her, a treble voice said, "Remmy is here for breakfast!"
Hermione blinked. She stood, placing the book delicately on the chair. "Come in?" It sounded more like a question than she liked.
The door pushed open, and an older female elf tottered in, a tray hovering behind her. The elf — Remmy — frowned. "Mistress says Remmy must knock."
Hermione stared at her, wondering how she was to reply. Remmy scowled and sent the tray barreling toward the end table near her wingback chair. She spun and wobbled out the door. Before she could close it, Hermione said, "Thank you, Remmy."
Remmy turned, eyes squinted, and nodded once before shutting the door behind her.
Beans and toast. Eggs, juice, bacon, grilled tomatoes. Pastries and tarts. And tea service.
Hermione's stomach twisted and rumbled. She hadn't eaten since yesterday — an apple slice Luna had handed her in the morning. Narcissa had claimed she wouldn't poison her last night, but Hermione knew of at least seven potions that could be baked into the pastries or stirred in with the tea that could alter her perceptions, relax her mind or muscles, or leave blank spots in her memories — all of which were tasteless and odorless.
She wandered into the bathroom suite to hide from the delicious scent of the food and stared at the tub. It had several magical taps for bubbles and scents. The tub was deep and wide, and much more luxurious than Hermione had seen in the last year. Her last decent bath had been last summer, before Bill and Fleur's wedding.
But she thought of the way Lucius Malfoy had swept into the suite, like her privacy meant nothing to him.
She quickly turned to the large shower, draped a towel over the side, and stripped. The water hit the perfect temperature, and she spent thirty seconds inside, scrubbing and washing only the essential areas, skipping her hair. She turned off the water, grabbed the towel, and wrapped herself tightly. She stood, dripping on the bathmat, waiting for something to happen.
She poked her head into the bedroom, seeing she had no visitors. She dried off, twisted the towel around her again, and waddled to the wardrobe. She assumed the owner of the robes and jumpers and denims wouldn't mind her borrowing a few things until...
Until... she didn't know what. Until her new clothing was provided? Perhaps a uniform, so she could join the elves in the kitchens? That's if Narcissa's protection against "visitors" was to be believed.
She plucked a pair of light-colored jeans from the drawer, and dragged her fingers across the jumpers until she found a fabric that sung "comfort" to her. White, soft, and fuzzy. She considered for a moment, and then snatched up a pair of cotton knickers from the drawer on the right.
Tucking herself behind the wardrobe door, she dropped the towel, shimmied into the knickers, dragged the fuzzy jumper over her head, and scrambled into the jeans. She was pleased when the zip and button closed perfectly around her hips.
She twisted to look into a mirror on the opposite wall, finding a scrappy young woman with dirty hair in somebody else's jeans and jumper. It would do.
She bent to put away her towel, but it disappeared, like they used to at Hogwarts. Elf magic.
Hermione made her bed, washed the empty potion vial from the night before, folded and rehung her nightclothes, and reshelved the books she had taken down. Studying the balcony doors again, she tried the handle tentatively. It turned. The doors swept open, out to the world, and she put one foot out, testing.
She stepped through with no issues. And when the light greeted her skin, she realized she had not seen the sun since the day before the Final Battle. Closing her eyes and breathing in the outdoors, she enjoyed the daylight.
Several house elves watered the hedges that lined the lawn. She thought of Dobby and how his life would have been here. Leaning her arms on the balcony, she wondered if any of the other elves wanted to be free. Maybe she could use that.
To her left, another rounded balcony. Separated, but close. She tilted over the railing, looking at what would break her fall should she try to tie her bedsheets together. Some unforgiving-looking bushes and decorative stones. If it was necessary, she could make the drop.
She stood in the doorway, facing the suite, enjoying the sun on the back of her neck. Ignoring the plate of food again, she stared at the walls. And she realized there wasn't a single portrait in the guest room. A few landscapes and artistic swirls, but no immortalized tattletale to watch her every move.
Privacy.
She wondered how long that would last.
Two swift knocks on the door. She waited, hands braced on the doorframe. No elf voice announcing itself.
Hermione shut the doors to the balcony, and moved quickly to the door, heart pounding, pulling it open.
Narcissa Malfoy in flowing blue robes, like water in a lake, and a smile on her lips.
"Good morning, Miss Granger."
She stared at her. "Hello."
Narcissa swept her gaze down her body, eyeing her denims and bare feet. Hermione blushed.
"I was wondering if you would fancy a walk. Perhaps a tour of the Manor?"
Hermione blinked. In her twelve hours in this room, she had not once considered that she would be permitted out of it. The suite had everything she needed. A gilded cage.
"A tour? I... er, yes," she stammered under Narcissa's shrewd gaze. A tour could be useful. Perhaps she could scour the grounds for vulnerabilities. "Shall I change into something more suitable?"
A flicker of something flashed in Narcissa's eyes, and the corner of her lips twitched. "No, dear. Please be comfortable." Hermione blinked again. It felt like she'd done something right, when in fact, she'd done nothing at all. Whatever game Narcissa was playing, Hermione was ten paces behind. She'd have to change that.
She ran to look for socks and shoes, before Narcissa could change her mind. The trainers in the closet were just her size, which was lucky. Months on the run had taught her how to pull on and lace trainers in under five seconds, and she thanked Merlin for it today while Narcissa Malfoy waited in the doorway like she was a guest in her own home.
Narcissa smiled when she reappeared, but before they could depart, her eyes caught on the tray of food. She pressed her lips together, and after a pause, said, "Are you finished with your tray, Miss Granger?"
Hermione swallowed and nodded. "I don't have much of an appetite." Her stomach growled on cue.
Narcissa tilted her head at the tray. "Would you mind if we took some of those jam tarts with us? They're my favorite."
Hermione shook her head and went to retrieve several tarts from the bowl, wrapping a napkin around them. Narcissa took them from her, saying something about the recipe, but Hermione was staring at the sugary morsels, trying to keep her knees from giving out. She was so hungry.
Hermione watched as Narcissa chewed, wondering if this was some kind of trick. Some way to get her trust. Narcissa pointed out one of her favorite paintings, and then suddenly the tarts were extended to Hermione.
"Take one, dear." Hermione reached for a strawberry tart, fingers shaking. She had no intention of eating it – just being polite. But then Narcissa said, "Excellent choice. Not a drop of poison in that one."
Her eyes snapped up to find Narcissa smirking at her before popping a raspberry tart between her lips. And maybe it was the satisfied hum from her lips around the crunching, or perhaps the clever way she had tricked Hermione into taking food from her, or maybe it was because she was just so hungry. But Hermione bit into the corner of the tart, knowing that she shouldn't. But also knowing that she wouldn't survive long if she couldn't trust the food.
The sugar danced across her tongue as they passed the large window overlooking the pond in silence, and even though Hermione had a similar view from the guest room, she still couldn't take her eyes off the sight.
"Lucius's mother cultivated the gardens." Hermione turned to see Narcissa following her gaze. They paused in front of the window, and Narcissa pointed. "The gazebo was built for her wedding day. She took extra care to keep the surrounding plots as beautiful as possible – tending to the pond, caring for the peacocks. She was very set on having all future Malfoy weddings on the grounds in the gazebo, carrying on the tradition."
Hermione swallowed, choosing her words carefully. "I'm sure your wedding was beautiful, Mrs. Malfoy."
Narcissa stared out the window. "It was," she hummed. "It was at the Chateau de Chambord." Her lips quirked and her eyebrow lifted. "My family has traditions, as well."
A shocked breath pushed from her lungs as the words sunk in. The older woman sent a satisfied smirk towards the gazebo, and gestured for Hermione to continue on with her. As they descended the stairs, Hermione meditated on whether Lucius Malfoy had met his match. Perhaps Lucius didn't hold as much power as he liked to believe.
Narcissa led her out the front doors into the May morning. They turned right at the bottom of the steps, winding around the perimeter of the Manor while Narcissa showed her the flowers she'd brought over from Norway, the tree that had survived the battle on the Manor in 1643, the seam in the exterior wall where the expansion had begun.
They stumbled across an old hunched elf weeding the bluebells on the north side of the Manor, and Narcissa stopped. "Hix, dear. This is Miss Granger. She will be staying with us." Hix nodded a greeting. "Anything we can do to make her stay more comfortable, we will endeavor to do it."
Hermione's brows drew together, lips pursed. Perhaps Narcissa meant to lull her into complacency as she joked about wedding plans, crooned about shrubbery, and offered her tea in comfortable chairs. But there was an echo of "indefinite" in her words, and a shiver of "custody" in her tone. Reminding her of exactly where she was. Who she was.
They moved away from Hix and the bluebells and Hermione scowled at her feet. She need to focus. She needed to find a way for Narcissa to show her the perimeter. They arrived at the bank of the lake in a tight silence. And just as she opened her mouth to question Narcissa, she spoke.
"Europe is a catastrophe at the moment."
She looked up at the blonde woman, startled. Narcissa glanced around for eavesdroppers before continuing.
"I cannot free you, Miss Granger." Hermione's breath caught. "Even if I thought it would be safe for you on the run, I could not. If you were to... 'escape,' Draco would be punished for it."
Narcissa Malfoy pressed her lips together, looking out past the hedges, and Hermione felt a cold wind inside of her, settling around her ribs.
"So," Narcissa sighed, standing tall. "We will keep you under our care, and we will keep you comfortable. I am sorry for all that you've lost, but I cannot offer you more than the assurance that Malfoy Manor is the safest place for you."
It wasn't the first time she'd heard those words, and she understood them no better the second time.
Even if she were to believe that, why was she the one to be safe? Why was she special?
She took a deep breath, heart hammering in her ears. "How is that?"
Narcissa looked at her, blue eyes piercing. "Because I've had those animals in my house, snarling and pissing and prowling. I know what they do, I know how they think." She sniffed, and Hermione was reminded of the Narcissa Malfoy she'd met before, nose in the air, above everyone else. "You're in no such danger here, I assure you. The Malfoy men may not be saints, but they worship their women fervently."
Hermione fought the urge to scoff. His woman? Was that what she was now?
Perhaps Narcissa misunderstood this situation. Perhaps Narcissa thought there was more to this than... whatever there was to this. But she seemed to genuinely believe that Hermione was not in danger here, that she was not purchased with the intention of defiling and debasing her.
Lucius on the other hand... Her earlier conversation with him gave her no answers either, and left her feeling more like a bought whore than she had the entire week prior.
Hermione stopped in front of a rose bush blooming the most perfect white roses. She bit her lip, debating whether to tell Narcissa the truth: that she had no idea why Draco had bought her. But Narcissa spoke before she could pluck up the courage. "You are welcome to come out here any time you like. You needn't have a chaperone in this house."
Hermione swiveled her head to her. "That's... That's very kind, Mrs. Malfoy. Is there anywhere I should steer clear of?"
"Besides the common decency of staying out of other's private quarters – of which I am positive you possess – nowhere is barred to you. We have no mad ex-wives in our attics."
Hermione tripped on a pebble, or something else imaginary. "You know Brontë?"
"I do." Narcissa smiled. "The Manor's library is too large to only house wizarding books."
Narcissa walked on. Hermione's heart lifted for the first time since someone else's name had been tattooed on her arm.
"That's right," she said, like it was detail she'd forgotten. "The Manor has a library."
~*~
Hermione wasn't sure she had smiled once in the past year. Not a smile from her heart. Not a grin that began inside of her, like a star bursting apart.
The library at Malfoy Manor was the size of a small bookshop. Perhaps a large bookshop, as Hermione couldn't see to the back wall. Tall as a grand ballroom with stacks reaching high to the ceiling, Hermione couldn't breathe for the love she felt for one room. How long had it been since she'd set foot in a library?
"Oh dear. It seems I've lost you."
She turned from running her fingers across a shelf to see Narcissa smiling at her. "I'm sorry. I do like books very much."
"Yes, I've heard." Narcissa tilted her head. Hermione was surprised that this detail stuck out to her after what she assumed were years of moaning and complaining from her son. Before she could consider further, Narcissa continued, "Can I bring you anything while you browse? Tea?"
A crack and Mippy was there at her hip.
"Mippy brings Miss tea and biscuits. What does Miss want for tea?" Mippy twirled her ear around her waxy finger, in a way Dobby used to.
Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "Milk and honey please."
"Does Miss want three honey spoons?" Mippy's eyes blinked, lashes bouncing.
"Yes, that's perfect. Thank you, Mippy." Hermione turned back to the shelf.
"Mippy knows how to make that. That is how Master Draco takes tea too!"
Hermione's fingers slipped on the book she was replacing.
Fuck.
"Is it? How strange."
She felt Narcissa's eyes on the back of her neck. And she wished a book would just open and swallow her.
"Mippy," Narcissa's voice chimed, "bring biscuits and more jam tarts for Miss Granger." And then in a theatrical whisper: "Not the poisoned ones."
Hermione blushed as the little elf shrieked and babbled, "Poisoned? Missus? Poisoned?"
"Shall I leave you to browse?" Narcissa asked.
Leave her? In freedom?
"I would like that very much. If you'll allow it."
"Miss Granger, I've already told you," she said kindly. "You are free to move through the Manor."
Hermione nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy."
"Please, dear, you may call me Narcissa."
Hermione watched Narcissa Malfoy sweep to the library doors, face tingling with surprise.
"Er, you may call me Hermione. If you like."
Narcissa smiled, a gentle quirk of her lips. The doors shut behind her with a click.
She stood in the center of the lower section and spun in slow circles for several minutes, waiting for something to jump out at her. Waiting for the books to rebel at her presence and begin a nightmare crawl towards her to eat the Mudblood alive.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of books, of resourcefulness, usefulness.
Narcissa made it sound like she could return here again, but still Hermione wanted to zoom through the stacks, and bleed the Malfoy library dry of information.
There was a catalogue in the corner of the room where one could ask for a subject or a title and the books would organize themselves, either by guiding you with fairy lights or bringing the books directly to you. Hogwarts had a similar system but Pince disabled it years ago when she realized students were using it to smack each other in the head with a well-timed request for a zooming book.
She steered clear of the catalogue, not wanting any traces left of what she was researching.
Before she could tumble into the stacks towards the Dark Arts, she found a shelf that contained only seven books, organized together in the center. Red spines glinted at her, and she reached forward, pulling the first to her.
Undesirable No. 1
by Lance Gainsworth
She gasped. She turned the other books to her and found the rest of her favorite modern magical book series. The red spines were from the collector's edition. She ran her fingers down the first, and pulled the cover open. There, on the first page, was a personal note.
Draco Malfoy,
Thank you very much for your letter. It means so much to me to hear from you. Please accept the first five, with a promise to deliver the last two upon completion.
Keep fighting,
Lance Gainsworth
She carefully closed the book, and replaced it on the shelf before her shaking fingers dropped it.
Draco Malfoy was a fan of her favorite book series. A very large fan, if he'd written mail to the author. This didn't shock her too greatly; she'd found his name in more than a few of the fiction books she'd check out of the library. But this was...
She was now itching to read them again. But she couldn't take the red copies. They were too precious. She could break the spines and smudge the lacquered covers...
She stepped back, turning to the upper landing. She couldn't even see the back wall of the library, but there was a large sunny window to the right, warming the entire room. Hermione climbed the six stairs and turned around a stack to find rows and rows of books. She gasped, loud in the quiet hum.
It must have been hours that she browsed. Mippy popped back with a tray of tea, sandwiches, and biscuits. She conjured a table and placed the tray down in the middle of the stacks.
"Mistress tells Mippy to tell Miss Hermione to take as much books as Miss wants."
Mippy left. She had only pulled down two books, so she set them on the little table next to the biscuits. Hermione had been trying to limit her selections, afraid of imposing, and despite what Mippy said, she assumed "as much books as Miss wants" was not the proper thing to do. She would probably ask for a bed to be installed in this corner if she was really to take as many as she wanted.
She plucked a strawberry tart, nibbling on the end carefully, wondering what Madam Pince would think of serving tarts and biscuits and tea around the books.
Madam Pince was probably dead. And Hermione was living in a small fantasy.
The scone suddenly tasted like ash. She placed it down on a saucer.
What was she doing? Sifting through priceless first editions and turning the pages of long lost copies when her friends and Order members were dead or dying. Hermione looked down at her teacup. Maybe there was something in the tea after all. Some kind of complacency drug.
Hermione turned to the shelves, her source of comfort and truth, and dove in, pulling down dark tomes that she'd never seen in her life – each one humming against her fingers, trying to get her filthy hands off of them.
She found chapters on Horcruxes in record time. The first book she grabbed was cited as a source in much of her Horcrux research. She wished she could cross reference with the book finder, but she didn't want a trail of Horcrux research leading back to her. She didn't know exactly where the Malfoys stood. How much did they know about Voldemort's plans – his power?
And how could she find out if Nagini was still alive?
Hermione had just turned to explore the back wall when she heard the doors to the library open. Narcissa must be back. She wondered what time it was.
She reshelved the three dark books she'd pulled down, memorizing their locations, and went to her teacup, flipping back through her wizarding fiction books and peering between the bookshelves to the library doors.
A pair of shoulders and a trim waist under a black jumper, black trousers and boots, and short blond locks that did not belong to Narcissa Malfoy. She slapped her hand over her mouth, watching as Draco hummed something to the book finder.
She hadn't seen him this close since the Room of Requirement. Since the hallways after Harry died. His hair fell over his eyes as he waited for the book finder to glow. A book on a shelf three feet from her slowly pulled into the aisle, hovering, waiting to be plucked. Hermione watched between the stacks as Draco turned towards the upper-landing, long legs carrying him quickly in her direction.
She clutched her books to her chest, waiting, breathing. It was like a car crash. A flying accident waiting to happen. She should say something. Announce her presence. Maybe drop something—
He turned the corner, swiveling toward her, and she saw the exact moment he registered her presence. Like an electric shock, seizing all of his muscles. Her tongue was dry as his mouth opened in a silent gasp. He braced himself on the bookcase nearest him.
And then very quickly it all went away. His mouth closed, his shoulders dropped, and his eyes shut off. He stared at her.
She felt her chest begging for air, the covers of the books pressing into her fingers.
"Your mother brought me here," her voice breathed, barely audible.
He took in her white jumper and denims, then back to her eyes.
"Have you finished with all of your other books?" he asked, voice hollow and low. He lifted a taunting brow.
She didn't know what he meant for a moment. She brought no possessions with her. Clearly he remembered this.
"The books in your room," he clarified, sending her a look that she recalled from Hogwarts whenever he needed to explain something to Crabbe or Goyle.
"N-no." That was all she said, watching him scowl at her. He shifted, like he was ready to run. He moved swiftly to the center aisle, grabbed his book from the air, and pivoted away to the landing stairs. Before he disappeared, she burst out, "What am I expected to do?"
He turned around to face her. His fingers twitched. "Do?"
"Yes," she said tightly, feeling a familiar headache behind her eye that only Draco Malfoy could bring on. "Should I... join the elves in the kitchen? Work the grounds? Or maybe assist your mother with... whatever it is she does?"
She listed all the things she hoped for. The things that she could stomach doing for the rest of her life. He continued to stare at her, and she wondered if she was supposed to suggest other tasks she could be doing.
"You want homework, Granger?"
Her cheeks heated and she narrowed her eyes at him. "No," she snapped.
"You want to pick up after the peacocks? Make my meals?"
She huffed. "No. I want to throw the covers over my head and pretend I'm not living this nightmare, but—"
"Great," he said. "Do that." And without another glance at her, he swiveled and left.
She watched him take the stairs in two long strides, cutting sharply for the door, and yanking it open before vanishing.
Of all the idiotic—! Hermione huffed. Picking up after the peacocks? Really?
She took a deep breath, coming back to herself, coming back to her situation. It wouldn't do to rile herself up over such a small annoyance. Given her circumstances, her first interaction with her new master could have been much different. She should count herself lucky.
But what was the point of buying her if he had no opinion on how she spent her days? Would no one tell her why she was here? Each Malfoy had a different agenda it seemed, and her mind groaned under the pressure of these riddles.
About half an hour of agitated wandering later, Narcissa came to check on her, teased her lightly for only having three books, and offered to show Hermione the way back upstairs.
She really should have paid attention to memorize the path. She was allowed to visit the library again on her own, but her stomach twisted at the idea of running into Draco again.
Narcissa told her she would have the elves send up dinner in a few hours. There was a question Narcissa asked, but she didn't concentrate on it, instead, letting her mind drift over something Draco said.
Narcissa closed the door, and Hermione looked to the bookshelves.
Your books.
She ran her fingers over the spines.
Your room.
She looked at the bedroom suite. At the deeply comfortable bed. At the bookshelves. At the closet full of clothes exactly in her size.
Hermione felt foolish now for thinking this room would be taken from her at some point. For thinking someone else's clothes just happened to fit her nicely. There was so much she still didn't know, but at least she'd solved one problem. She moved to the bathroom and stared at the tub.
Her tub.
She had at least two hours before Narcissa said dinner would arrive.
Hermione took off the jeans, folding them nicely over the counter, pulled off the jumper, and brought a towel over to the edge of the tub. She started the taps. She turned on the bubbles.
And she washed it all away in her bathtub, in her suite in Malfoy Manor.