Trigger warning: gore, body talk/mentions of metaphors that make it clear Hermione is on the thin side from malnutrition
Chapter Two
Not a word is spoken on the journey out of the prison Hermione's been held in for the last sixty-one days.
She's dragged limping by the shackles that are wrapped around her wrists, tugged down a set of stone stairs. These stairs lead to a wooden door which swings open to reveal grass and a starry night sky that doesn't hurt her eyes to view. She's not prepared for the gust of cold air that greets her as her feet touch soft blades of grass. The shock of it makes her forget about the state of her knees.
Almost.
She glances behind her, seeing the wall of a small castle that stretches up above her head. It's not more than a few stories high, signaling to her that the pit where she'd been kept was indeed located underground. There is nothing special about the castle and the grounds it sits upon. Miles of grassy hills stretch away from the castle's foundation in all directions.
Whose estate is this?
It's a blessed feeling, the softness of nature and the few moments of stolen freedom that she keeps while she's stared at.
He looms over her, her head barely reaching his shoulders. She has to tilt her chin upward to maintain his gaze. He's clad in a black shirt, black trousers that are tucked into his boots, and an open set of black robes that reach his calves. All that black contrasting with the starlight makes his hair appear opalescent. A soft breeze brushes past the area, caressing their skin and causing strands of his hair to fall in haphazard directions. Some shrouds his eyes, some stands on end. With a painful twist of her stomach, she realizes it looks like Harry's.
The links of the chain clink against each other as he takes a step toward her. In spite of who she is, she can't stop the way her heartbeat falters with fear.
Because it's Draco Malfoy who's got his hand wrapped around the heavy chain that reaches from her wrists. It's Draco Malfoy who's just purchased her with the intent of feeding on her blood. It's Draco Malfoy who's standing before her, a predator.
A vampire.
Like she's still the same girl with a thirst for knowledge that she used to be, she scrutinizes him. Studies him. He's not a vampire by choice, that much she knows. She doesn't have to know him well to know that he'd rather die than lose the right to call himself a Pureblood. She wonders how he feels about blood status now that his is as dirty as hers.
Why would he want to taste her?
Malfoy looks like he isn't sure what to do or say. Like the realization of what he's done is sinking in. He couldn't have planned this through if he wanted to. He hadn't even known it was her until they showed him her face.
His gaze falls to her shaking knees. As if on cue, the pain returns to overwhelm her and she collapses in the grass. He doesn't move, doesn't say anything, so she takes it upon herself to tell him what's wrong.
"I think my kneecaps are fractured." It feels bizarre hearing her voice carry in the open air. "When they pushed me and I hit the stone."
Malfoy gives her a terse nod and, before she can blink, there's a crack. For the second time, apparition assails her.
When she opens her eyes, she's on the bare ground just inside the iron gates of the Malfoy estate. She looks up at him, wondering if he's expecting her to walk down the path that runs between the two hedge mazes, or if he's going to help her. She doesn't expect him to help. It hasn't been that long since the day he had a chance to help her, when she was bleeding on the floor before him. When his aunt carved a shameful reminder into her arm.
"Do you know any Healing charms?"
She realizes he's just spoken, so she tears her eyes off of the towering mazes to address him. "I do. But I don't have a wand. The Snatchers snapped it in half when they found me."
His eyebrows shoot up, but only for the amount of time it takes her to take a breath. His expression becomes unreadable. Blank. "I will perform the charm; you tell me the incantation."
"You haven't learned?"
"No."
For some reason, Hermione finds that surprising. It's always been well-known throughout the wizarding community that the Malfoys had an extensive library. Surely there had to be books on healing within. At the very least, had he not had the desire to learn?
"Do you know the proper incantation?" he goes on.
She nods.
"What is it?"
"Well, it's not like episkey. That's for minor fractures and small breaks. I don't think these are minor. It would be illogical to think that my bones are unhurt from malnutrition. They only fed us once a day, and I was there for two months. So, this will require a few extra steps. First, you have to run a diagnostic to see what the issue is. Then, you have to make sure the leg is in the proper position to...To..."
She trails off when she sees something akin to anger intensifying in his gaze. She isn't sure what she's done, but she knows this isn't like angry Malfoy in the halls of Hogwarts. This is a vampire. A vampire who's purchased her for the purpose of feeding from her.
"Am I supposed to apologize now?" she asks, truly unsure of what to do.
He doesn't respond, choosing instead to hold tighter to her chain and Apparate them into the house.
The moment she feels the cool air of the manor against her right side and the heat of flame on her left, a conflict grows within her. This is the Malfoy Manor. This is a place that not only haunts her nightmares, but it's a place that changed something deep within her. Between the Cruciatus, and the agony of having her forearm cut and burned with the tip of a wand, she realized that she was human. A girl with thoughts and emotions and feelings that went beyond books and school. It was on that day that knowledge was worthless in the face of pain.
But the fire is so warm and so soothing. After months of harsh stone and heavy darkness, of meager meals while she wasted away, even a fire in the hearth of a random room in the manor is everything. The pain in her knees is nothing compared to how desperately she leans into the heat.
It's now that she looks at herself. At the ends of her spiraling curls, the coils reaching down to her hips in this seated position. At the ripped tunic her captors had forced upon her which looks like it's made of burlap. At the dried blood on the left side of her body that paints her rich brown skin with dark red. The blood she'd slept in, that had seeped out of someone's body to wrap itself around her.
Knowing how easily she was apparated out of the pit, the other girl must have fought much harder.
"Up," Malfoy says. "Now."
With a wave of his hand the chain and shackles disappear, leaving her arms free.
Hermione steels herself for the agony that will come. She places her hands flat on the lush emerald carpet beneath her, her fingers sinking into it as she starts to push herself upward. Now that the adrenaline of her freedom from the pit has faded, she can feel every inch of her body that aches. Her kneecaps are on fire.
The pain intensifies with each second as she pushes up far enough to get one foot flat on the floor. Sweat beads on her temples and underneath her arms, prickling her skin. It hurts so badly she can't think. So badly that she can't maintain her composure any longer. Tears spring to her eyes and she considers asking him for assistance, but she doesn't want to ask him for anything.
She's not here as a house guest.
Malfoy scowls so loudly that it echoes off the high ceiling. He leans down to grab her by the elbows, the sudden appearance of his hands causing her to flinch on instinct. He lifts her to her feet with ease, lets go of her as though she's aflame, and then points to one of the large, plump armchairs by the hearth. The fabric is black with silver filigree laid throughout, and there's a small ottoman in front of it.
Taking a breath and holding it, she limps over to the chair. It takes six steps. Six, agonizing steps. When she finally sinks into the cushion and relaxes, she lets herself breathe.
Malfoy moves to stand beside the ottoman, shrugging out of his robes to reveal that the black shirt he's wearing has long sleeves. He then sits down on it, widening his knees so that her legs are between his. She's so surprised at this that he has to snap his fingers to get her out of her reverie.
"What do I do?" he says again, sounding irritated and fed up.
"With what?"
His look of bewilderment is edged with a fury that she has no desire to tap into. "With your fucking leg, Granger!"
At the bite of his shout, she fights the urge to curl in on herself. She's been on the run, hiding, and now at the bottom of a pit for so long that she can't remember who she is, let alone how to react in this situation.
"Oh. Right. You have to cast a diagnostic spell." She tells him the incantation and shows him the wand movements with her finger. He casts it over her left leg, a faint, watery image appearing in the air before them. It glows a pale red but Hermione has no trouble inspecting it. She points to the blurred image of her bones, to a specific area on her kneecap. "See that there? It's a patellar fracture."
"Am I supposed to know what that is?"
"No, I suppose not. You only need to know how to heal it." Her gaze washes over him warily. "Now you can do the other knee."
He does, and she sees that it's worse than the other. It's completely broken, but not difficult to fix.
It's strange using her brain like this. It's been so long since she's needed to recall this information. On the run, they couldn't use their wands at all, so healing spells were out of the question.
Perhaps if they could, she could have healed Parvati's sickness before it took her.
"It'll take some healing outside of a spell," she says, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "Skele-Gro should take care of my left knee. For the right knee, use the spell to set the bones, and then Skele-Gro will fix it. So, spell on the right knee first, then I'll drink Skele-Gro and everything will be fine."
"What spell?"
"The one I'm going to tell you, Malfoy." Her tone is testy. She doesn't mean to be, but his temper is concerning and annoying at the same time.
He doesn't react other than to sit further back on the ottoman, reach down to grab her right ankle, and pull it up and outright. His gentleness is a surprise as he places her heel on his thigh.
"How do I set the bones?"
"This is the tricky part. A Healer would know what to do by simply feeling, but..."
"Okay, so what do I do?"
She grimaces. This might not be a good idea. The shards of bone could be upside-down in her flesh for all they know.
"Maybe...Maybe we should call a Healer, actually."
He freezes, those slender fingers of his wrapped around the underside of her foot and his other hand poised in the air on its way to her kneecap. If he didn't look like a storm of rage was being held at bay by his sheer will, she'd have the space to process the fact that Malfoy's touching her skin.
"We will not be calling a Healer," he says, and it's a sentence with a period at the end of it. The loud crackles and pops in the hearth adorn this moment with a fiery soundtrack. "I will do this myself."
She swallows hard against the lingering burn in her throat from when she'd vomited. "Malfoy, you cannot see inside my leg, and you don't know what it's supposed to feel like when everything is where it's supposed to be. Short of cutting my skin open, you..."
Her words die in her throat when the fingernails on his free hand begin to grow, elongating and curving into razor-sharp claws. The claws of a predator. He stares at her.
"Is cutting you open what would be best?"
The question is so simple. Like slicing into flesh is normal for him. Which it is, given that he's a vampire. But if he slices into her, wouldn't the blood be an issue?
"No," she says, her voice tremulous. "No, that's not what would be best. I think...I think I can do it."
He arches one dark eyebrow.
"I can," she insists, wary of his claws as she pushes past them to touch her own knee.
It hurts to the touch but she doesn't want to let it show. She's already made it seem like it's not bothering her as much as it truly is. She carefully shifts her fingers. It's soft where it's supposed to be hard, and she can feel the two pieces that have broken off moving inside of her when she pushes on them.
The pain is white-hot.
Stopping, she takes a few deep breaths.
"Need help?" Malfoy says with a sneer.
"Absolutely not."
She pushes against the left side of her knee, hoping that by pushing it into place, she'll be able to feel with her fingers if the kneecap feels 'right.' But when she does it, she can feel black creeping in at the corners of her vision. The more time inches by, the more it hurts. She can't do this herself. Her body doesn't want to allow it.
In her hesitation, Malfoy grabs her hand and wrenches it away from herself. He lets all of his claws but the pointer finger shrink.
"Hands on the arms of the chair," he orders. "And don't scream."
Her pulse races, heart beating faster. She knows what he's going to do, and she knows she's powerless to stop it. But when she tries to grab his wrist to keep him from doing it, he growls at her. Like a wolf, he growls, and it rumbles low in his chest, reminding her that this is a monster that has her in his clutches. A vampire. He could snap her ankle in two if he wanted to.
"Hand...on the arms...of the chair, Granger."
"But what about the blood?"
His glare is venomous. "Don't make me ask you again."
Anxiety tears at her insides. She doesn't want to beg because she knows he's going to do it anyway, but she can't stop herself from asking for something. Something that might award her some modicum of control over the situation.
"Can't I have something to numb the pain? Please?"
"No," he says, and he slices her kneecap open from left to right.
Agony.
Agony as brilliant and violent as the nucleus of a star. Her mouth falls open on a choking gasp as he uses his claw a second time to bisect the first cut. Blood spills out and off of her leg, crimson red turning almost black the moment the carpet embraces it. His skin is so pale that the red is striking. She can't help but stare, ogling at the sight of him peeling each flap of flesh back. Corner one, corner two, corner three, corner four. Her knee is open.
His claw disappears as he reaches into her leg, heedless of the gore, and begins to feel around. Something builds inside of Hermione's chest, expanding like a balloon as the pain begins to tug her consciousness out of her mind. He pulls the first piece of bone out for inspection, white and red mingling upon it. There's a strange glint in his eyes as he does, and tiny veins spiderweb downward from them, spilling over his cheeks. A sure sign of hunger.
If he fed off of her right now, she would resign herself to it. Anything to stop the pain.
Hyperventilation is creeping up on her. Her back arches away from the chair, her hips twisting to the left as he gingerly places the piece of bone back inside, fitting it in place.
"Does this look right to you?"
On autopilot, she leans forward and looks into her open leg. She has no idea what it's supposed to look like.
"I think so."
He reaches for the second piece, plucking it out as deftly as though it were a grape, and she's finally eclipsed. Her legs are quivering with a violence, both of her hands are tearing at the fabric of the left arm of the chair, and her upper body is twisted toward the fire.
And she screams.
She screams so loud that her voice goes hoarse and her eyes fill with tears as though her body needs to make room for more pain.
Malfoy's hand wraps around her chin and yanks her head around to look up at him. She can feel her own blood, warm and thick as it smears across her jaw. She can feel it dripping onto her thighs beneath the scant hem of her tunic. His gaze is as cold as ice, barren and without sympathy.
"I told you not to scream."
"I can't help it!" she shrieks, shaking his hand off of her face. Waves of pain shoot through her body, beginning at her open leg and slamming up into her head. "Just hurry up!"
He places the second piece and then grabs his wand with fingers drenched in the essence of her. "What's the incantation to set the bones?"
She says it to him through clenched teeth, willing her tears to stay locked in her lashline so he can't have the satisfaction of seeing them fall. He casts it and she feels a slight ripple as the pieces lock into place.
"Well, look at it."
"I..." She squeezes her eyes shut. "I don't care. Just close my leg up."
"But what if it's not correct?"
"I don't care, Malfoy!" she shouts. "Just close it up!"
When he doesn't move, doesn't speak, she allows herself to cast him a glance.
He looks like he wants to kill her.
"Close it up," she whispers. "Please."
He folds the four corners of her flesh back into place, and his silence is enough to tell her that she's going to regret yelling at him. He's not her friend. He's not her Healer.
She's his food.
"Pinky." With a loud pop, a small, frail House Elf appears. To Hermione's faint surprise, the elf is clad in a pale blue dress with long sleeves. Her ears flop down on either side of her head, framing massive eyes as blue as the garment.
"Pinky is here, Master Malfoy."
"Bring me Essence of Dittany and a bottle of Skele-Gro." He pauses, still looking down at her leg, obviously analyzing his work. "And a pain potion–a strong one."
"Yes, Master." Pop.
When they're alone, the sounds of the fire and Hermione's gasping go to war. She's hanging onto her sanity by a thread. No pain has ever felt more acute save for the Cruciatus. And what's more, the simplicity and ease that Malfoy had showed in the action of cutting her open is almost as frightening as the fact that she's here to be eaten.
She watches him through pain-lidded eyes, watches as he looks at the blood on her leg and his hand. He's staring at it as though he's never seen it before. Is he deciding whether or not to lick it off of their skin?
"Shocking, isn't it," she says between heavy pants.
"What?"
"Our blood's the same color."
He narrows his eyes and raises his wand. With a slight flick, the blood vanishes and with it, the prominent veins on his face.
Pop.
"Pinky has brought the things you asked for, Master," the elf says as she brings them to him. Then, she looks at Hermione without saying anything.
Malfoy uncorks the Skele-Gro and holds it out to her. She takes it and gags her way through drinking it. It slides down her throat like sludge, the taste so rancid that she nearly vomits for the second time that evening. Then, she snatches the pain potion from him and downs it, too, thankful for its sweet flavor. Both potions start to work immediately, easing Hermione's torment. She tries to give the empty bottles to Malfoy, but he directs Pinky to take them.
"Does Master need anything else from Pinky?"
He cocks his head to the side. "Yes. This is going to be Miss Granger's room from now on. Fill her dresser and wardrobe with robes, dresses, nightclothes, and undergarments. Make sure the loo has everything she needs to bathe and take care of her hygiene. Then, bring her a cup of hot tea, and place it at her bedside."
Pinky agrees then disappears with another pop.
Hermione can't help but feel taken aback at the way he says her name, so formal and so...Normal. Miss Granger. It's alien to hear him say it. It's alien to hear him request so many things for her, as if she's a mere houseguest.
"How long will it take to heal?" he asks. "When can you bend your knee?"
"In a few hours, the cracks should be healed," she replies. "And then it might take a week or so for the soreness in the surrounding area to dissipate. I'm sure with all of your digging, there's some swelling."
"A specific date would have been preferable."
Hermione throws her gaze up toward the ceiling. "I don't even know what day it is."
His brows twitch together in another unreadable expression. His gaze scans her yet again, scrutinizing her and looking for something she cannot see. She wonders why he hasn't seemed to care about the fact that before he cast scourgify on them, she'd sat in his furniture while covered in dried blood, dirt, and grime. That he'd held her ankle without wondering where exactly she'd been held before he bought her.
She pushes away those memories. Not having a loo in the pit isn't something he needs to know. In fact, he doesn't need to know anything about the pit at all. She'd sooner roast him alive than trust him with the knowledge of her friends.
"It's the first of October."
"Ah, so I'm nineteen."
"What?"
"My birthday. It was September nineteenth. That means I'm nineteen years old."
"Right. Well, this room will be warded adequately when I wake in the morning. No one unwanted will be able to enter."
It's surprising that he would allow such a thing when she's here to be his prey. Why would he give her the ability to survive him?
What does he plan to do with her?
Before she can ask him, he leaves the room through the heavy wooden door. It clicks shut behind him, and then it's only the fire that she hears speaking to her.
Hermione takes a look around the room from the chair, too exhausted to move herself from it. There's silk draperies, and ornate wall moldings, and the carpet belongs in the queen's chambers, and the four poster bed is big enough to fit five people. The room is much too extravagant, and she wonders if this is where he brings all of his food. How many people has he drained until they died? Has their blood stained the parts of the room that a scourgify couldn't reach?
Her body feels heavy with potion and pain.
After a half-hour or so of basking in the warmth of the fire and allowing her thoughts to roam, she hauls herself to her feet to test her weight on them. Her left knee feels completely fine, however her right knee is definitely tender. She'll have a limp for a while yet, no thanks to Malfoy's exploratory surgery.
Barbarian.
She limps towards the small door adjacent to the bed, casting a glance toward the three tall windows that line the wall. Two bookshelves stand guard, alternating with the windows. Making her way to them, she runs her fingers along the spines. There's too many to count. It's been so long since she's held a book in her hands that she's apprehensive about pulling one out to read.
Her gaze catches on the night sky through the window, so she walks to the sill and takes in the view. She can see the grounds, the hedge mazes to the right and rolling hills to the left. The gate looms ominous between each one. There are no flowers. No colors other than green so dark that the night paints it black.
As cold as the house itself.
She looks up at the stars, at the way they adorn the sky like precious gems, and wonders how many nights they've watched over the Earth. How many deaths have they seen? How many civilizations fall? How much joy?
If she could ask them, she thinks she would ask them to watch over her parents. Knowing that she'll never see them again, it would be her one wish to know they'd be all right.
Hermione enters a bathroom much too fancy for her. She catches sight of herself in the mirror, of bruised brown skin and hollow cheeks and hair so long that it's begun to loc at the ends. The tunic needs to go–it's little more than fabric at this point. She pulls it off and lets it fall to the floor, standing nude on the tile as she waits for the bath to fill.
She has to empty it and refill it three times before she's finally scrubbed herself clean. She'd made a few attempts to detangle her hair, but without a comb and hair cream, it's simply not possible. The coils reach the small of her back, thinner at the bottom than the fullness at the top, a ghost of what it could be if she could take care of it properly.
If only she had a wand.
When she drifts off to sleep, swathed in silk sheets and the softest, fluffiest coverlet she's ever had the pleasure of being underneath, she's as content as she can be. This is the first time she's slept in a bed since before the Horcrux hunt. A real bed, not a cot or a hard mattress or the grass or dirt or stone. It's heaven, and right now, she doesn't care if it all belongs to Malfoy.
Isn't she Malfoy's now, too?