Trigger warnings: this chapter has Malfoy placing and creating false memories again, so there is references to rapes that have never actually occurred.
Mentions of suicide attempt
Chapter Twenty-Six
Malfoy sits at the table with them at supper.
It's horrifically awkward. He sits at his normal seat, at the very end of the table across from Hermione's. Faye sits beside Hermione; Tillian hesitates, but takes a seat next to Malfoy. The food the elves bring is delicious, as usual, but Hermione finds that it tastes like ash when she has to look at the arsehole that's in her direct line of sight.
Tillian looks like Ron used to look when he didn't like someone–glares, surliness, and sour looks. Faye seems nervous, perhaps a bit intimidated, but she tries to be friendly. Malfoy is polite, with few responses. Hermione doesn't speak at all.
She's not surprised, though. There's no part of her that thought Malfoy would ever be best friends with her friends. They were here for her sake, not to be a big, happy family in the Malfoy Manor.
"Are you happy?"
Hermione frowns down at her plate. Why did he care if it made her happy? The only thing he cares about is blood. Why keep his blood supply happy? There's no point to it.
"Thank you for letting us go outside, Mr.—erm...Dra–" Faye stumbles over her words, looking at Hermione as though she knows what Malfoy wants to be called by them. "Mr. Malfoy?"
"Malfoy is fine," Malfoy says, cutting his meat with a straight spine and elegant movements.
"Oh," Faye says with a relieved smile that brightens her face. "Then Malfoy, thank you for letting us go outside. We had a fun time in the hedge mazes."
Malfoy's gaze briefly flickers to her before he nods, his expression almost wary. Like he doesn't quite trust her, or know how to talk to her.
Hermione takes a bite of her food, wondering if this is how Malfoy would have spoken to her at school if she weren't a Muggleborn. Polite, but with the general caution one has when speaking to a stranger.
"We had fun, didn't we, Tillian?" Faye asks, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
Tillian is a storm cloud. "I guess."
Hermione notices Malfoy's brows rising, but he doesn't turn to look at Tillian.
"What do you mean, you guess? You didn't even want to come back inside!" Faye exclaims.
"Unfortunately," Tillian says with light, careful words and emphasized syllables, "my mind was preoccupied with the well-being of our Hermione here. She was upset this morning, you know."
Hermione's heart skips a beat. She and Faye exchange glances. Malfoy takes a slow bite of his meat, chews it just as slowly, and doesn't react.
"Yes, we all care about Hermione," Faye says, sending him a pointed glare. "But you did have fun in the mazes."
"Sure," Tillian says in a sickly-sweet voice. "It was really fun being let out of the cage for the afternoon."
Hermione glances from Tillian to Malfoy and back again. This is reminding her of school in an almost humorous way, even if the reason for Tillian's dislike is morbid. Tillian does not like Malfoy.
She grimaces and takes a delicate bite, sipping her juice. She looks at Malfoy over the rim, searching for any sign of a reaction from him. If it were Hermione speaking to him the way Tillian was, they'd probably be arguing and she'd end up with his hand around her throat, or something else equally dramatic and pointless.
He simply takes another bite, watching his plate as he does so.
"Well, I had a really fun time," Faye says, taking a vicious bite of her own. "So, that's why I'm thanking Malfoy."
Malfoy looks at her again, with that same wary expression. "You're welcome."
Hermione knows he's polite, as a Pureblood is raised to be, but to hear him say 'you're welcome' makes her nearly choke on her food. She doesn't think she's ever heard him say 'thank you' before.
It's not just Malfoy who looks at her when she makes the choking noise. Tillian and Faye do, too.
"Sorry," she says, coughing a couple of times and hiding it with another sip of her juice.
"You okay?" Tillian asks.
"Yes." Another cough, followed by a weak smile. "I'm fine."
Malfoy's eyes linger on her. She knows he can hear her thoughts. He knows exactly why she choked.
"I really like my room," Faye says, changing the subject. "It's got all the stuff I need for my knitting. I've already finished a blanket."
Hermione looks at her in surprise. "It was there when you got there?"
"Yes, but I had told Malfoy I liked to knit when we first got here. He asked us what we liked to do."
Hermione can't stop herself. She stares directly at Malfoy's blank, impassive face. He's chewing his food like he's trying to win an award for how well he can break it down before he swallows it.
"That's awfully kind of him," she says, trying not to sound suspicious. "What about you, Tillian?"
Tillian looks reluctant to say, likely because he's decided he dislikes Malfoy. "I told him I liked wizard's chess."
"And?"
"Nicest wizard's chess set I've ever had."
"Hm." Hermione's eyes snap to Malfoy, who stares back at her like she's a blade of grass. "How incredibly kind."
If only they knew how cruel he could be. They wouldn't be so grateful, and they'd understand why she's so surprised. What the Hell does he have to gain by being kind to her friends?
"What's in your room?" Faye asks, drawing Hermione's attention.
"Things I asked Pinky for, things I didn't," Hermione says, thinking back to that first night, when Malfoy told Pinky to get her whatever she wanted.
"What kinds of things did you ask for?"
"Products to take care of my hair and books."
"What were the things you didn't ask for?"
"A vanity, a wardrobe with dresses and dress robes, a loo that's much too large for me and he knows it, a fireplace, an armchair, and a bed." Hermione lists them off, not realizing that Tillian and Faye's eyes are about to tumble out of their skulls.
"You have your own loo?!" Tillian says, his forearm resting against the table with his fork in hand. "We have to share! It's across the hall."
Hermione opens her mouth, but doesn't know what to say. It makes sense, but at the same time, it doesn't. If Malfoy doesn't care about her, then he doesn't care for her friends, either. So it makes sense that they'd have rooms that were a bit more basic. But Hermione's room is...Well, it's more like her quarters. Fit for a princess or a queen.
"If you'd like to move to a larger room," Malfoy says suddenly, "ask."
The silence that settles over the table feels like it's charged with electricity.
"Seriously?" Tillian says.
"Yes."
Faye and Tillian look at each other, and then Faye asks, "Can we share?"
Hermione almost chokes again. It's her turn to try and keep her eyes from falling out of her head. She looks at her friends, at Faye's eager expression and the red blush that's crawling up Tillian's neck. Things make sense.
Malfoy's gaze dances from Faye to Tillian several times. "You may."
Well.
"Thank you," Tillian says, but he still doesn't sound friendly. His expression hasn't gotten any less dark.
"When dinner is over, call for Pinky," Malfoy says after a sip of his wine. "She'll take you to a new room. Both of you."
Hermione's mind is reeling, but not because she disapproves. No, she's extremely ecstatic for her friends. They deserve to be happy, to find solace in each other and possibly love.
She's just a bit envious.
They finish the meal in silence. Faye and Tillian spend the rest of it sending each other secretive smiles and furtive glances full of promise. Malfoy doesn't look up from his plate, not even one more time. Hermione finds herself absentmindedly watching her friends, her appetite having dissolved.
"Granger, I'll meet you in the library." Malfoy rises from his chair. His blank gaze settles upon her and then drops to her plate. "When you're done."
"I'm done now." She starts to stand.
"Sit."
His tone makes her stomach flip. Faye and Tillian both look down at the table, as though they're in trouble.
"I'm not hungry," Hermione says slowly. "I'm ready now."
Malfoy narrows his eyes. "Eat. I will meet you in the library after."
Hermione wants to fight it, but he's already walking away. Instead, she plops down in her seat and glares at his receding back. As Tillian and Faye enter into a hushed conversation about Malfoy and how bizarre and scary they think he is, Hermione finds that her food tastes a lot less delicious when she wishes she could use it to spite him.
-
Malfoy stands near the library fireplace, the flames reflecting in his grey irises as he gazes into it. He's got one hand in his pocket, the other curved around the back of his neck as he rubs it like it hurts. His pale blonde hair looks almost golden in the firelight.
Hermione's heart hurts.
Why does it have to be this way? Why couldn't it have been real? Why did he have to go so far to trick her? Why couldn't he have just put his foot down, told her she was never seeing her friends again, and fed off of her until he drained her? Why didn't he just let his father kill her? Why didn't he strangle her to death, or break her bones, or let her die when she jumped?
Everything he says is a lie.
"I'm here," she says, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
He doesn't turn around. "Sit on the chair."
"I'd rather stand."
"Your funeral." He unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves up, revealing his tattoos. Tattoos that she casts several glances at, feeling guilty and angry with herself for doing so. He strides toward her, his eyes almost black with the way the fire lights him up from behind. Hermione feels a distinct urge to step back as he draws near, but she resists. When he comes to a stop in front of her, she lifts her chin and holds his gaze with her own. Hopefully he can see how much she hates him.
How much he hurt her.
"I'll start with pulling forward the memories I created last time," he says. "Then I'll work on making new ones."
Hermione's not looking forward to that, but she won't give him the satisfaction of knowing it. Not of her own volition, anyway. She'll have to figure out a way to cope with the feelings the memories give her; to remind herself they aren't real, and that she's not broken or worthless.
This time, without the comfort of the real Malfoy's words.
She feels his fingers against her temple, and then he's inside her head. The icy cold spreads throughout her mind as he heads straight for the empty box that he created for her real memories. He tucks them all away, this time adding the ones that occurred when she was healing from her accident, and the one that's causing her the most pain: the morning they spent together. Worse is the fact that he doesn't stop to watch them, or even take a second glance. It's like they revolt him or don't matter at all. He also tucks her memories of Tillian and Faye being here at the manor away. Once everything that needs to be hidden is locked in the box, he sends it to the depths.
The ice slides out of her mind, and she blinks. She only feels a bit tired, and there's a slight weakness in her knees. A feeling of having the faint memory of things she thinks might have happened, but doesn't know how to name because the memories are buried so deep.
"I had to hide most of the memories you had while you were healing, even though you weren't exactly conscious," he says, running his fingers through his hair. "Isn't worth the risk. Carrow will be looking for anything he can use."
"Well, we wouldn't want him thinking you care about me, or anything," she says, her tone as icy as his Legilimency. "Next one."
He narrows his eyes slightly, then places his fingers against her temple a second time. The ice fills her mind once more, and Malfoy gets to work. He pulls out the box full of false memories–the ones that caused her to jump from the second floor–and begins to place them where they're supposed to go. They're just as awful as she remembers, this time with the added knowledge that the real him doesn't give a fuck about her. It makes them worse.
When he withdraws from her mind this time, the sheer weight of the fabricated trauma causes her to sway on her feet. Her vision blurs for a moment, and she places a hand to her forehead. Her heart has gone from aching to anguished. When she looks up at him, she doesn't see a hint of the real Malfoy because the real Malfoy doesn't exist. She isn't sure he ever did.
All that exists is the vampire.
She sees his hand move, like he's going to reach for her arm.
"Don't," she snaps, fixing him with a warning glare. "I'm fine. Do the next one."
His fingers touch her temple for the third time, and this is when he begins to weave his webs. In the place where his panic attack after Charon Palace took place, he places a false memory of him beating her for her insolence and for "enjoying herself" in front of the Death Eaters. The false Hermione is even more broken than before, this time covered in blood and with a torn dress. False Malfoy rapes her in front of the Floo, then leaves her there on the floor while he smokes a cigar in front of her.
Malfoy slides out of her mind. She staggers back away from him, pain like a knife slicing through her head. It's so real, made even more painful by her mistrust of him. Maybe these really are things he wishes he could do to her.
She sees his throat jump and his eyes darken further. She expects him to tell her not to think those words, or not to disrespect him, but nothing comes. Only his fingers on her temple.
The next major memory he alters is the one where she jumps from the second floor. He stops at it for a long time, watching it repeatedly. At first, Hermione's confused until she realizes.
He had found her after she jumped. This is his first time seeing it actually happen.
She wonders if he can feel her pain.
Eventually, he stops rewatching the memory. He tinkers with it, adding some things to make it seem like she's wearing a shorter, more tattered dress. Adds blood to her legs, and bruises to her body. Makes it look like she's been so beaten and violated that she tries to end her life because of it. It feels wrong, knowing that the real reason is because he took his sweet time removing the other horrible memories he created. Altering it makes her feel like he's erasing responsibility, even though she knows it's necessary.
The memory, missing the healing process that he'd removed, has her waking in the dark. Instead of it being Malfoy holding her and taking care of her, the false Malfoy is once again taking her on the bed. He makes it seem like she's still wounded, like he's such a monster that he'd rape her while she's still healing from a suicide attempt. That's not how it happened, but she can't think about that. She can't cherish any of her good memories with him.
They aren't real, either.
When he exits her mind, her vision swims. She's swaying like a Tokyo building in an earthquake, squeezing her eyes open and shut as though it's helping. She feels weak–more exhausted than the last time. Her knees give out.
Malfoy catches her by the elbow with one hand. Reluctantly, she allows him to steady her. The minute she's stable, she yanks her arm away from him. He doesn't react. He's Occluding to such a degree that not even molten rock could destroy his walls.
"Next one," she says, but her voice lacks bite.
Malfoy touches her temple, and then he's diving inside.
The next most recent memory that he changes is the one from this morning. He shifts some of the things she shouted at him around, modifies a few of the things he said, and eradicates the parts where he bites her. It becomes a scene where Hermione's fighting him while he demands she give in, and then he rapes her against the wall. The moment Tillian walks in is erased, replaced by Malfoy dragging her back to her cell.
When he slides out, Hermione feels like she's been hit by the Hogwarts Express in the head. The false memories, old and new, are swirling together. With her real memories tucked so far away, and her recent feelings of anger toward him, there's no reprieve from the pain. When she looks up at him, there is no Malfoy other than the one he created for Carrow's sake.
She fears him.
He averts his empty, empty eyes, and then his gaze flits back to her own. He searches her face, looking for something she doesn't know. His hands are on his hips.
"These aren't–"
"Don't bother pretending to comfort me," she says, breathless from the tornado of emotions she's enduring at the moment. She's trying to hang onto some semblance of herself, but it feels like it keeps slipping away, seeking her hidden memories so it can hide, too. "It doesn't matter whether they're real or not. All I see is you, and that's not a good thing. Hurry up and do the last of them."
Malfoy inhales, like he's trying to keep himself calm, and then he's inside her head again. The ice is especially cold this time, spreading thin as he creates random memories to bridge the gaps between major memories, just like last time. Once it's woven tight and sealed, he slides back out of her head.
It's so simple, yet it floors her.
They're rapid-fire, the false memories flooding her mind like spilled wine, completely hiding anything that could be hidden behind them. Cutting and burning and strangling and tearing. Blood leaking from multiple parts of her body, mingling with tears on her cheeks as she begs and pleads. Her hair, yanked and twisted until she cries out, legs pinned wide with sticking charms. Pushing and thrusting and ripping and–
Hermione collapses on the ground, her hands on the carpet between her knees as she gasps for air. The memories are choking her, wrapped so tight around her throat that she's suffocating. There's smoke in her lungs and ropes around her ribcage. No amount of inhalation can grant her reprieve. She's not strong enough for this. She doesn't want to go through it alone.
She needs someone.
Someone to be there for her, to keep her safe, to hold her.
She wants Malfoy, but she can't have him because he doesn't want her and she has to pretend she doesn't want him because if she doesn't–if she doesn't, then she thinks her heart will tear in two.
It's a panic attack.
There's a second where Malfoy stands there, watching her hyperventilate, and then he sinks down onto one knee in front of her. He raises a hand. It's a gentle movement, but the memories are so strong and her panic so intense that she shrieks and falls back, holding up a hand to ward him off.
"Please don't." She's sobbing openly, and all she can see before her is Malfoy. But it's the wrong one. It's not the right one. "Don't hurt me, please. I'm sorry."
The emptiness in Malfoy's eyes shifts, tremors of something trying to break through. His brow furrows as he pulls his hand back and stares down at it. He frowns at it, like he's never seen it before. Then, his gaze snaps down to hers. The look in his eyes, though still a void, has intensified. The something wavers in the background like a flame in the wind.
He reaches for her upraised hand, grabbing her wrist. She screams, weeping and pleading as he drags her forward. She tries to pull herself out of his grip, but his fingers are clamped tight, hard as diamond. His other arm curves around her waist, his palm pressing to the flat of her back as he pulls her into his arms. She fights against it, even as he sits on his rear and pulls her closer. She's sideways on his lap, struggling and crying, but he doesn't acknowledge it.
His palm slides further, until his fingers curve around her ribcage. His other arm wraps around her shoulders and she feels his fingers sinking into her curls, pulling her head until it's against his chest.
"No, no, no," she cries, her hands pushing against him, trying to escape. The memories are blurring, and her head is on fire. It feels like it did after she hit the marble floor of the entryway. "Why are you doing this to me? Why?"
He doesn't say anything. Just holds her. Pressure so tight that it does the opposite of suffocate her–it starts to soothe her. To calm her. Slowly, she stops fighting. She remembers his sandalwood scent. Spearmint. The warmth of his body. Familiar.
Safe.
She sags against him, her fingers curling in the fabric of his button-up as she inhales him. This is the Malfoy she knows. It has to be.
"Hold onto them," he murmurs. "Hold onto the right memories."
She sits there in catatonia, her mind screaming at her to get away from him. To run and hide. Half because of the false memories, half because she knows he hurt her. That this won't last. This is all a trick.
The right memories are the problem.
"This has to happen," he goes on to say, his voice only an octave higher than the crackling of the fire. "If it doesn't, Carrow will know."
"Isn't that what you want?"
He tenses. When he speaks, he sounds strained–like he's resisting anger. "No. That is not what I want."
"I don't believe you," she whispers, squeezing her eyes shut against the fresh wave of tears that looms overhead, threatening and malicious. His arms are strong, his body a pillar in the storm for her to grab onto. "I don't believe anything you say anymore."
She feels his heart beating hard against his chest, feels it against her shoulder. She places her palm flat against the skin, feeling it pound to meet her touch.
It's too bad his heart is made of ice.
"Granger, I shouldn't ha–"
"Let me go," she whispers, cutting him off as a single tear rolling down her cheek. "Just let me go."
Three seconds pass before he loosens his hold. She feels his hand on her back again, helping push her so she can get to her feet. By the time she's steady, he's on his feet, too. His hand is still on her back. She doesn't look up at him. She can't.
"The moment the party is over," Hermione says quietly, tear-blurred vision trained upon the bookcases on the far wall that stretch up to the ceiling, "you will take these memories away from me. I don't care if you're upset or panicking...You don't get to be selfish when it comes to this. Not again."
She feels his fingers twitch against her back, searing hot through the thin fabric of her dress.
"Understood," he says.
Finally, she tilts her head and looks up at him. She sees exactly what she expects to see: empty grey, devoid of life and emotion.
"How lucky you are," she says, "to be able to run and hide from the things that hurt. I wish I could do that."
Holding his gaze for as long as she can, she gathers her skirts and leaves the library. When she gets back to her room, she plans to cry. But for now, she holds her head high and doesn't look behind her.