The hall that Voldemort resided in was damp and warm like a reptile cage. Somewhere underground. The walls that she could see in the darkness were stone with no windows.
Far underground.
The air was thick and sour. Stale. Putrid with dark magic.
Hermione broke out in a cold sweat and Malfoy dragged her forward as she fought to escape. It wasn't a conscious choice. Every cell in her body screamed for her to get away.
Malfoy's hand on her was like a vice. She couldn't wrench herself free. He barely seemed to notice that she was writhing in his grip.
"My Lord," he said with a respectful tone as he bowed. "I have brought the Mudblood. As you requested."
His words were punctuated by Hermione's panicked stuttering breaths as she tried to quell her panic. A crushing weight suddenly bore down on her back and forced her prostrate upon the moist stone floor. She could barely breathe under the pressure and fought to drag oxygen down her throat as her jaw was ground into the hard floor. The sound rattled in her ears.
"Oh, yes," Voldemort murmured in a caressing whisper. "Stroud mentioned she was not yet gestating."
Hermione rolled her panicked eyes upward so she could see from where she was pinned on the ground. Voldemort was reclining in a large stone throne staring down at her indolently.
He waved a hand, it had dull scales on it.
"Bring her forward," Voldemort ordered.
The weight crushing Hermione into the ground was released and two attendants pulled her up off the floor and dragged her up the steps of the dais, forcing her to her knees at Voldemort's feet.
Voldemort didn't sit up. He turned his head slightly and wiped the corner of his mouth. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut but he drove into her mind. His mind inside hers felt like a branding iron. He was burning her. Damaging her. She was screaming and screaming until her lungs and throat gave out and she just shook in agony.
Hermione had not realised how much her shock from being removed the cell had dulled everything. She hadn't remember it hurting so much. Or perhaps Voldemort was feeling vindictive due to her lack of pregnancy.
It was like having her consciousness flayed.
She didn't know how long it lasted. Forever. She felt like she should have died several times along the way.
Voldemort tried breaking through the magic around her locked memories and when he finally gave up he proceeded to ravage all her recent memories. Her arrival at Malfoy Manor, the first time Malfoy raped her in his room. And the second time, and the third and the fourth and the fifth and the sixth. He made her relive all ten of them as though he were curious to see how Malfoy did it. Her panic attacks. Her conversations with Malfoy. Her limited interactions with Astoria. Her questions and suspicions and schemes. He pored over the months with excessive cruelty and curiosity.
He razed her mind until she hung limp. Her muscles too worn to even shake.
Finally he withdrew and the hands gripping Hermione allowed her to drop to the ground, spasming.
"You knew the Mudblood in school," Hermione heard Voldemort say after a minute.
"Indeed, My Lord," Malfoy said with a faint tone of derision. "One of Potter's favourites."
"She dreams of your death quite desperately. More than she dreams even of mine," Voldemort said with amusement.
"A sign that she has a sense of what is even possible," Malfoy drawled.
Voldemort nudged Hermione with his toe. Her vision kept wobbling and then vanishing intermittently when she tried to focus. It wasn't darkness. It was as though her eyes didn't know how to see anymore.
"She is clever. I trust you are keeping her well in hand, High Reeve."
"Of course, My Lord. You know I succeed in whatever you set me to."
"Indeed," Voldemort said. "It has been a long time since you have caused me any disappointment."
"I am vowed to you, My Lord."
"You are aware that she is dangerous," Voldemort said and Hermione felt magic suddenly drag her up off the floor and she hung suspended as he stared at her, his face twisted with distaste. "She is lying in wait to find a weakness to exploit."
"You have had her carefully caged. You know I will not fail you," Malfoy said respectfully.
"I want her pregnant," Voldemort said with a forceful hiss. Then, as though it were an afterthought, he added, "It concerns me that the Malfoy line is without an heir."
"Of course, My Lord, Astoria and I have been careful to follow all of Healer Stroud's instructions," said Malfoy.
"Very well," Voldemort said, sinking further into his throne and dabbing the corner of his mouth again. "Return her to the manor then."
Malfoy bowed and then gripped Hermione by her arm from where she hung suspended. The magic holding her released and she fell against him. He grimaced in obvious distaste and proceed to drag her out of the hall and away from the cloying, oppressive nest of dark magic.
When they were halfway down some hallway Malfoy shoved her against a wall and released her. She slid halfway down it and raised her shaking hands up to wipe away the tears crusting on her cheeks. She could still barely see through the blinding pain in her mind.
"Drink this," he commanded, slipping a vial of a common pain relief potion into her hand. "Otherwise you'll black out when I apparate you and it will add considerably to your recovery time."
She swallowed it, fairly certain he wasn't going to poison her.
"Did that ever happen to you?" she found herself asking, when the pain began easing so she could speak again and his face slowly swam into focus.
Malfoy eyed her for a moment. "More than once," he said. "My training was rigorous."
She nodded.
"Was that after fifth year?" she asked looking up at him. The pain seemed to fade somewhat when she focused on the question.
"Yes," he said it in a clipped tone.
"Your aunt?"
"Hmm," he hummed in confirmation, his eyes narrowed.
They were both staring at each other intently. He felt like the only thing she could see.
"Not the only thing you learned that summer," she noted. His eyes widened incrementally.
"Are you needing a confession for something? Should I tell you everything I've done?" he asked in a careful drawl. He drew closer so that he towered above her.
She forced herself not to shrink or cower down further than she was already slumped. She stared up into his eyes. A question rose to her lips and she felt somehow that it was vital that she ask it.
"Do you want to?" she said.
He stared at her as though he were considering something. Then his eyes grew flinty and he stepped back.
"Why would I want to talk to you about anything, Mudblood?" he said coldly, grasping her by the arm and dragging her down the hallway to the apparition point.
Hermione's brain still felt crushed and damaged. When Malfoy apparated back into her room the squeezing sensation on her head made her cry out and collapse, vomiting as soon as she reappeared.
He stood stiffly, staring down at her and banished the mess from the floor while she tried to fight off the endless waves of nausea.
"Go to bed. You have two days to recover before I'll expect you to be walking again," he said before turning to leave. She would have glared at him if she could have interrupted her body's compulsive dry heaving.
When her body finally became convinced that there was absolutely nothing in her stomach left to expel Hermione crawled into bed and cradled her head in her arms.
She wasn't sure when two days passed. She slept like a dead thing and couldn't have said whether it had been hours or days when she finally woke without a migraine.
While she was poking at breakfast Malfoy strode in.
She glared at him sullenly from the bed.
"Season's greetings, Mudblood," he drawled.
She stared at him in mild surprise.
"As a Christmas gift to myself, I have decided to end the weekly ritual of replacing all your shoes. It should arrive tomorrow. Please do not interpret it as a sign of my affection," he said and chuckled for a moment. Then his face grew cold as he walked closer. "It's been three days and you haven't left your room. I hope you're not going to inconvenience me."
Hermione felt too ill to feel afraid of Malfoy.
"I have no way of knowing what the date is," she said in a flat voice. "Perhaps giving me a calendar could be an additional present for yourself."
He stared at her.
"It didn't occur to you to just ask an elf?" he asked after a moment.
Hermione stared at him and felt unwanted tears of humiliation prick at the corner of her eyes. Her mouth twisted as she fought not to snarl or cry.
"I can't speak unless spoken to," she said stiffly.
Malfoy froze and was silent for a surprisingly long time. An indecipherable expression rippled across his face before he blinked and laughed faintly.
"And here I thought it was an elf rights thing," he said with a smirk. His eyes still looked slightly frozen. "I'll send an elf later and see if you can speak if it initiates."
He spun on his heel and walked out without another word.
When Hermione finished picking at her food an elf appeared to take the dishes away.
"Master is wanting to know if you is needing anything," it said, avoiding her gaze.
"A calendar that indicates the date, if that is possible. And—a book, about anything."
The house elf looked uncomfortable.
"I can be getting you a calendar. But Mistress was sayin the Mudblood isn't to sully any Malfoy books and had them hexed so theys would be burning your dirty blood."
Hermione looked away as her chest tightened. She bit her lip so it wouldn't tremble. Of course Malfoy or Astoria would do something spiteful like specifically restrict her from reading.
"Nevermind then," she said quietly.
"You could be having the Daily Prophet, if you is wanting it," the elf offered.
"That—would be nice," said Hermione unwilling to let herself feel hopeful about it.
"Is the Mudblood wanting anything else?"
Hermione's mouth twitched. She almost asked the elf to call her Hermione. She hadn't had anyone call her Hermione since—since—
It was hard to remember.
But she wasn't sure she wanted to know whether the elf had specific instructions about only calling her Mudblood. It probably did. It was easier not to let herself even ask.
"Nothing else," she said looking out the window.
The elf popped away.
A calendar had appeared on the wall and a copy of the Daily Prophet was on her bed that afternoon when she returned, shivering, from her walk.
December 25th. Seeing it on the wall left her frozen for several minutes.
The copy of the newspaper corroborated the date. She felt afraid to reach out and touch it, half expecting for it to burn her. An extra twist of spite.
Hesitantly she rested a fingertip on it. Nothing happened.
She sat down and read it front to back. Savouring words.
Reading.
She had missed it. The last time when she had read The Daily Prophet it had been so rushed.
She read it slowly through once. And then again. And again. Every word.
It was mostly trash. Thinly veiled propaganda. The political news was nearly unintelligible amid all the spin. Hermione had never found quidditch interesting but she avidly read through the game recaps since they seemed to be the only thing accurately reported on. The society pages went on and on about Astoria. Her name was dropped in every single society piece.
Hermione read the paper forward and backward. She looked for any patterns. Or codes. Just in case.
The next morning she found a pair of boots in the wardrobe among her shoes. Malfoy's "present." She had been wearing through the soles of her flimsy slippers every few days and walking in the snow had her toes nearly frostbitten on several occasions.
The boots were dragon-hide. When she put them on they resized themselves to her perfectly. She could tell they had enchantments woven into them to keep her feet at a perfect temperature. She could walk a hundred miles in them and never get a blister.
She stared at them in confusion. They were—excessive.
Much like the cloak he'd provided.
Perhaps Malfoy didn't even know how to buy normal shoes. He just assumed that all boots were supposed to come in dragon-hide with temperature control and cushioning charms.
Finding Malfoy at all considerate was disconcerting. She stared at the boots for several more minutes.
She dismissed the notion. If Astoria owned a lapdog it would assuredly be fitted with a jeweled collar.
She was just a well-shod and cloaked pet surrogate for him to fuck.
He was probably worried that if she got frostbite he'd have to interact with her again.
And, given that she was allegedly intended to bear three children before she departed the estate she was presumably expected to live at Malfoy Manor for at least four years. Possibly five or six.
Considering how spartan Malfoy Manor seemed to be Malfoy apparently adhered to a strict "buy it once, buy it for life," philosophy. The fact he'd had to buy her twenty pairs of shoes in two months probably was something he found morally offensive.
If the boots had been given to her earlier she might have felt hopeful about using them to escape. But as she looked down at her feet she didn't feel even the faintest flicker of optimism.
Although it would be nice not to have her feet ache for hours each day.
The things she found herself being grateful for were truly horrifying.
The house elf appeared again to take away her dishes and asked if she wanted anything.
"Am I allowed to keep the newspapers after I've read them?" Hermione asked cautiously.
The question was apparently not one the elf had been prepared to answer. It shuffled its feet and seemed to be considering.
"Topsy thinks so. It will just be being banished after," the elf said after several minutes. "Why is the Mudblood wanting them?"
Hermione shrugged.
"There's nothing to do. Having paper I could use would be nice. I'm guessing that I'll be refused if I ask for a ball of string or yarn."
The elf nodded that Hermione's guess was accurate.
"Topsy is to keep this room clean. But the Mudblood can be using the paper until the next paper is coming," the elf said.
"Fair enough," Hermione said in agreement. Not that she had any choice in the matter.
Hermione read the day's newspaper twelve times before tearing it into neat squares. She had spent the previous night going through a list of things she thought she might be permitted to have. She had assumed that she couldn't have knitting needles. Being restricted from yarn had been a guess, although where Malfoy worried she'd hang herself without a portrait catching her seemed questionable—
Maybe outside. She'd have to look more carefully at the trees on the estate... She brushed aside such schemes to save for a later date.
She wasn't thinking about suicide. She wasn't thinking about the way her head still throbbed; as though Voldemort had done permanent damage to her mind. She wasn't thinking about how sounds hurt. Or how her hands had started spasming because of the clock again. Or that the way Voldemort had forced her to re-live being raped had felt even more traumatic than the times when it happened. She wasn't thinking about how she was never going to escape.
She wasn't thinking about anything but carefully ripping up The Daily Prophet as steadily as her spastic fingers would allow her to.
That was all.
It was the only thing she was thinking about.
When she had made several perfect squares she set to folding them. She started with origami cranes.
She couldn't remember exactly where she had learned to make them. The ability felt like muscle memory, creating the precise creases in a specific order that she didn't recall memorizing.
Her father? Maybe?
Someone with agile, precise fingers. At a kitchen table guiding her through the steps.
"If you fold a thousand cranes in one year, you'll get a wish," a male voice said.
"No, you get good luck and happiness," came a woman's voice from the next room.
"Same thing."
"Not really. A wish assumes a person knows what's best for them. Good luck and happiness leaves it to Fate to lead you to the right place. I'd much prefer to be gifted with good luck and happiness than a single wish."
"Ok, Confucius. I'll defer to your superior understanding of the mystic."
"Now you're purposely trying to provoke me. Conflating Confucianism and Japanese Mythology is an offense before the gods of pedagogy. I will not let you fill our daughter's head with such misinformation."
"Maybe I'm doing it to encourage her critical thinking.... Fine, I sincerely apologise for how horribly miseducated she'll be now. I will accept full responsibility when it causes her to be cast from civil society and forced to wander the earth as a nomad. In the future I'll be sure to cross-reference everything I say at the library first."
" Yes, thank you. That would be great."
"The trouble with marrying someone who never bores you is that they don't even leave a man in peace to teach his daughter his favourite hobby. Here, I'll show you how to make origami tessellations. You mother doesn't know a thing about those. I just read a paper by an astrophysicist who proposes using the technique to store large membranes on satellites."
Hermione folded origami cranes until her fingertips felt raw. Then she arranged them on the floor so they would stand, wings extended.
The newspaper was not an ideal strength for origami but it was something to do. Hermione hadn't had anything to do in so long.
It was too bad that Japanese mythology wasn't actually real magic. She'd fold a hundred thousand cranes if it would give her a bit of luck.
She gathered the cranes up and flattened them all. Leaving them in a neat pile for the elves to banish.
She wondered what her parents had been like. What kinds of jobs they had.
She hoped that her inability to remember them meant that they were safe somewhere. That she had protected them before the war started.
She hoped they didn't know what had become of her.