Warning: This chapter contains a brief episode of self-harm.
He tasted of firewhiskey.
It was a punishing kiss. The moment their lips touched, he crushed her body against his. His hand on her throat slid back and up to the nape, tangling his fingers in her hair as he deepened the kiss. His other hand reached up and cradled her cheek in the palm of his hand for a moment before it slipped down along her body.
He angled her head up as he kept kissing her. His tongue pushing into her mouth before withdrawing as he nipped her lips. Hard enough to hurt, but not to bleed. Then, when she was gasping for breath, he pulled his mouth away and started kissing along her throat.
Hermione was frozen in shock. Pliant and stunned in his possessive hands.
He was pulling at her clothes. She could feel the outer robe slipping onto the floor, and the top buttons of the dress open as the cold manor air hit her. He ripped buttons off as he exposed her and explored her bared skin.
He was grinding himself against her as he pulled the dress down over her shoulders, stripping her to the waist.
The cold air bit against her skin, and she felt her nipples harden in the cold as his hands darted up to palm her breasts and tease her. His mouth was at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and he was kissing and nipping his way along it when suddenly he reached a spot and she-moaned.
They both froze.
Malfoy wrenched himself away.
He stood there looking at her. She was slumped against the wall, half stripped, and-aroused.
His eyes were wide, as though he'd just become aware of himself. He stayed there looking shocked for several moments before the mask suddenly clicked back into place. His face grew hard and he smirked.
"Apparently you have accepted your place," he said with a leer.
Then he turned on his heel and vanished into the darkness.
Hermione stayed there in shock. She felt frozen, as a cold sense of devastation crept over her.
She was-she had been...receptive. To Malfoy.
Her pliancy hadn't been enforced by the manacles. It hadn't even occurred to her to push him away. It hadn't occurred to her to want to.
He'd kissed her and she'd-let him. She hadn't felt repulsed. It had thrilled something lonely and aching inside of her. Being touched. Someone with warm hands caressing her. It was a longing laced right through the very fiber of her.
Trapped in the manor, she was latching onto any scrap of kindness she could find.
But it wasn't kindness.
Malfoy wasn't kind; he simply wasn't cruel. He wasn't as awful as he could be. He possessed the meagerest shreds of decency.
Apparently, in her fracturing mind, a absence of cruelty was sufficient solace. For her starved heart, it was enough.
A strangled sob tore itself from her, and she gathered her robes around herself and fled back to her room.
Flinging the doors of her wardrobe open, she wrenched out a new set of robes and buttoned them up as rapidly as possible. Then she wrapped her arms around herself for an additional sensation of security. Of decency.
She was better than this.
She wasn't going to let her psychological survival instincts trick her into falling for a monster; into wanting the attention of the person responsible for starting the war; into being receptive to the man who had murdered her friends.
She couldn't let her mind rationalise into falling for her rapist simply because he wasn't as much of a monster to her as he could be.
She couldn't. Wouldn't.
Wouldn't.
Wouldn't.
She could bear being betrayed by her body. She wouldn't let herself be betrayed by her mind.
She'd rather break it.
She had to get out of the manor.
She pressed her hand against the cold window and stared despairingly across the moonlit estate.
Then she drew her head back, and smashed it into the glass as hard as she could.
The unbreakable pane didn't break. Couldn't give.
She drove her head into it again.
And again.
And again.
There was blood streaming into her eyes, but she kept going.
Again.
And again.
An arm closed around her waist, and a hand clamped over both wrists as she was dragged away from the glass.
She fought. Trying to pull her hands free. Digging her toes into the grain of the wood-floor to push herself back.
Sobbing.
"Granger. Don't-don't." Malfoy's voice was close to her ear.
She pulled futilely to free herself as she sobbed and sobbed.
She was so tired of being hurt and alone. She wanted to be done. If she kept existing in that house she was going to try to find solace. Anything but being cold and alone forever and ever.
She wanted to be touched. She wanted to feel safe, even if it was simply an illusion. She wanted it-
But she couldn't.
She wouldn't betray everyone like that. Harry. Ron. Minerva. Ginny...
She wouldn't betray herself like that.
"I can't-can't-" She sobbed, trying to break free again.
"Don't hurt yourself. Granger, that's a command. Do not hurt yourself." Malfoy growled the order as he pulled her further from the window.
She kept struggling.
"Stop."
The order was snarled.
"Stop trying to physically injure yourself." His voice was shaking.
She felt the manacles around her wrists grow hot as he invoked them, and she struggled against the magic.
"No-!" She sobbed as she felt the magic grow until it almost smothered her mind and her body went limp.
She slumped against Malfoy. He released her wrists and wrapped his arm tightly across her shoulders, as though he expected her to suddenly fling herself against the window again.
She just stayed there, shuddering and quietly sobbing in his arms. There was blood sliding down her face and dripping from her lips and chin onto the floor.
"So-" he said in a tense voice after a few minutes. "You found a way around the manacles, I see."
As she hung against him she realised dully that she had.
The compulsions existed in her mind. The order was not to hurt herself, but didn't specify any difference between psychological and physical harm. So-in a state of sufficient mental agony-she had been able to bypass it. She was hurting either way; she couldn't stop her mind from hurting her. The compulsion had been nullified.
It was always in her mind.
Her interpretation of the compulsions had always been what had limited her. The command to be quiet: she had interpreted it as Malfoy not permitting her to speak without permission because she assumed he would be vindictive like that. So she hadn't been able to speak. If she'd interpreted it as something simpler, like not speaking loudly, she could have spoken; unless Malfoy had clarified and specified the compulsion further.
The compulsions were built upon preventing willful disobedience.
When she wasn't thinking about the fact she was disobeying, when she was reacting instinctively or speaking without thinking, she'd always been able to get around the compulsions. She simply hadn't noticed it.
"I suppose I did," she said quietly, regaining her footing and standing.
His hands slid away from her. Something inside of Hermione twisted at the loss of contact.
He turned her and used a spell to remove the blood from her face and cast a healing charm where the skin had split. Her head was throbbing where she'd struck it.
"Why?" Malfoy asked in a hard voice. "Why the sudden need to go so far?"
She looked at him. They were standing only inches apart. His steely, grey eyes were studying her carefully. He'd taken a sobriety potion since he'd kissed her; she could smell it on his breath.
"Why not?" she said in a wistful voice. "The options have always been escape or die."
"But this is the first time you were actually intent enough to manage it. Why tonight rather than yesterday, or the day I left for France?"
So he had noticed that she'd become unwillingly responsive. Hermione's mouth twitched and she turned her face away, pressing her cheek against her shoulder.
Don't talk to him. He is not your friend.
"I don't require you to speak to get the answer," he said after several minutes. "Although I would think you'd prefer it. We are due for a legilimency session, after all."
Hermione pressed her mouth shut, but her eyes flickered over to her bed. She didn't want to lie on a bed in front of him again. If he invaded her mind to get the answer he'd see how pathetically, desperately lonely she was. How significant he had become to her.
If she answered the question, she'd have some control over the narrative.
She opened her mouth several time as she struggled with where to begin. She felt so cold her skin hurt. She hugged herself, rubbing her arms slowly.
"I think I'm beginning to develop Stockholm Syndrome," she finally said quietly. "It's a Muggle psychological condition. A survival instinct or coping mechanism, I suppose you could say."
She fell silent and glanced toward Malfoy. He was expressionless, apparently expecting her to expound further. She turned away.
He sighed with irritation. "So, we're doing this the hard way. Very well. Legilimency then."
Hermione stiffened and curled her shoulders in defensively. "It's something that occasionally occurs where a hostage can start to become attached to their captor-due to their dependence." She forced the words out, her voice shaking. She didn't look at Malfoy.
She forced herself to continue.
"I don't know much about it. I didn't have much time to study psychology. But, I think I'm starting to rationalise your behavior; trying to justify what you do. A lack of cruelty becomes kindness. It's-it's a survival mechanism, so it operates through subconscious reactions and adaption. In order to try to make an authentic emotional connection, I might develop feelings for you...." Her voice broke and trailed off for a moment.
There was a pause.
"Honestly, I'd rather be raped by your father than have feelings for you," she finally said staring at the blood on the floor.
The was a resounding silence, and she saw Malfoy's hands curl slowly into fists at his side.
"Well," he said after several seconds, "with luck you're pregnant now and you won't need to suffer the attention of either of us. You'll just be left alone."
He started turning to leave. Without thinking her hand darted out and caught hold of his robes. He froze. She sobbed under her breath even as she gripped the fabric tighter, dropping her head and resting it against his chest. He smelled like moss and cedar, and she shook and burrowed against him. His hands rose up and rested on her shoulders until she could feel the heat of them slowly sinking into her, his thumbs lightly running across her shoulders until she stopped shaking.
Then his hands stilled and he shoved her away violently. Hermione stumbled back and nearly fell against her bed as he drew away from her. His eyes were cold, and there was something unfamiliar in his expression she couldn't place.
He stared down at her for a moment, his jaw twitching, then he drew a sharp breath and gave a soft, bitter sounding laugh.
"You don't have Stockholm Syndrome." He raised an eyebrow.
"You don't care about surviving. Gryffindors are always eager to die." His lips curled into a sneer as he said 'Gryffindors.' "After all, you've been fantasizing a grand murder-suicide for the two of us for months now. No, the thing that's eating you isn't surviving; it's the isolation. Poor little healer, with no one to take care of. No one who needs you. Or wants you."
Hermione stared at him as he continued.
"You can't bear being alone. You don't know how to function. You need someone to love; you'll do anything for the people that let you love them. That was what the war was for you, wasn't it? You wanted to fight, but you were smart enough to know another foolhardy, seventeen year old duelist wasn't going to changed the outcome of the war-not the way a healer could. I don't imagine any of your friends ever appreciated that, did they? That the choice was a sacrifice for you."
Hermione felt herself pale.
"Potter and the rest of your friends were too stupid and idealistic to appreciate those choices you made. Quite a burden, being one of the few people smart enough to understand what was necessary to win; one of the only ones willing to actually pay the price that victory demands. They never appreciated any of it. You let them send you away. Then, when you came back, you let them work you to death. Not much value or glory for healers-not like fighters. Even Ginny realised that. When Creevey died, they gave Potter days to grieve just because he saw it. You were the one who tried to save the boy, and what was it you got? Four hours and you were expected back on shift again?"
"That's-that's not-how-it-was." Hermione's hands were clenched into fists so tight the bones hurt.
"That-is exactly how it was. You may delude yourself, but I've spent so many hours inside your memories I probably know them better than my own. You would have done anything for your friends; you would have made all the hard choices and paid the price without complaint; whored yourself for the war effort. But do tell me, because I'm sincerely curious, what did Potter ever do for you to deserve it?"
She glared up at him. "Harry was my friend. He was my best friend."
Malfoy sneered. "So?"
Hermione looked away and drew a shuddering breath. "I never had any friends-when I was growing up. I was too odd, too bookish. I wanted them more than anything, but no one ever wanted to be my friend. When I found out about Hogwarts, I thought-I thought it would all be different, that being a witch was why I'd never fit in. But-when I got there-I was still odd and bookish and no one wanted anything to do with me. Harry-Harry was the first person who let me be his friend. I would have done anything for him." She gave a dry sob under her breath and swallowed it. "Besides-it's not like there was any chance for me without him."
There was a long pause.
"That is the most pathetic thing I've heard in my life," Malfoy finally said, straightening his robes. "So, what? I'm your replacement Potter?" He scoffed. "If anyone so much as speaks to you, you can't help but latch on to them? Knockturn Alley prostitutes cost more than you."
Hermione's jaw trembled, but Malfoy wasn't done. "Let's be clear, Mudblood. I don't want you. I never wanted you. I'm not your friend. There is nothing that will bring me more joy than being done with you."
"I know-" Hermione said in a low, hollow voice.
"Although..." Malfoy said after a pause, "I can't deny you've improved on me of late. I'll have to send Stroud my thanks."
He raked his eyes across her body. Hermione drew a sharp breath and glared at him.
Then she scoffed. "Really? That's why you kissed me? Because of the potion?"
He shrugged and stared at her mockingly, eyes cold. "What can I say? Rape isn't really my 'thing'. However, your growing attachment is both fascinating and amusing to experience. I never imagined you'd be the sort to fantasise that my mandatory care of you indicated some sort of attachment. I can't even begin to guess how amused the Dark Lord will be to witness it in a few days. Potter's Mudblood, falling for her Death Eater rapist. I didn't think it was possible for you to be more pathetic, but apparently with Mudbloods there is always a lower point."
He turned to leave but then paused. "I'll be back later to deal with your memories. Please don't assume that I'm dead because I occasionally have a better use for my time than wading through your tragic little life."
He snorted derisively one last time and stalked out of Hermione's room.
When he returned the next day, Hermione had barely moved. He stared at her for several minutes. She didn't look up or acknowledge him.
"Bed," he finally commanded.
Hermione stood without a word and seated herself on the edge of bed. She stared down at the floor. He didn't need her eyes.
There was a moment of pause before he forced his way into her mind.
He spent most of his time examining her memory of Snape. He barely skimmed through her recent memories. When he caught up to the present, he withdrew and left without a word.
Hermione felt-dead. If she'd looked in the mirror and found that she was ghost she would have barely been surprised.
Cold nothing.
That was all she felt.
She lay in bed and mouthed apologies to her friends for failing them all.
When Stroud arrived six days later, Hermione wordlessly crossed the room and seated herself on the edge of the exam table; mechanically opening her mouth for the veritaserum.
"You're looking rather grey," Stroud said, her mouth quirking faintly as she studied her. "How did the conception effects go this month?"
"I don't know. Isn't that why you're here?" Hermione said in a bitter voice, staring down at her lap and rolling the fabric of her robes between her fingers.
Stroud gave a cold laugh. "Clever."
There was a pause as Stroud cast the pregnancy detection charm. Then a longer pause.
"You're pregnant." Stroud's tone was triumphant.
Hermione's hands stilled.
No.
Please, no.
It felt as though Hermione had been abruptly forced deep under freezing water; no air, and pressure, as though she were being crushed on all sides. She could hear her heart-rate surge up until the sound of her blood roaring was almost all she could hear.
Stroud started speaking, but Hermione couldn't make out any of the words.
She couldn't breathe.
Stroud was speaking to her more and more loudly. The words were rounded and indecipherable. Hermione gasped and tried to draw in oxygen, but her throat felt compressed-as though she were being strangled.
Her heart was beating so hard there was sharp stabbing sensation through her chest.
No. Please, no.
Stroud was standing in front of her, staring into Hermione's face. Stroud kept saying something, again and again. The movement of Stroud's lips was the same each time as the healer drew closer, gesturing. Hermione couldn't make out the words. Stroud's expression was growing visibly impatient as she kept repeating herself. The sound just garbled together into a indecipherable roar.
Hermione couldn't breathe; her lungs were burning as she tried to. The edges of the healer's face were blurring, as though she were bleeding into the surrounding air.
Everything was growing blurrier and blurrier. There was a sensation of needles sinking into Hermione's arms and hands.
Suddenly Malfoy was in front of her; his hands on her shoulders.
"Calm down."
His hard voice cut through the blurring.
"Breathe."
Hermione gasped, drawing a ragged breath; then she burst into tears.
No. No. Don't be pregnant. Give her to Lucius, let him rape and torture her to death.
Every time she drew in a breath it felt as though there were a knife being dragged down inside her esophagus.
"Oh god-No..." She sobbed the words over and and over as she shook.
"Breathe. Keep breathing," Malfoy said. His expression was drawn. His jaw clenched as he stared down at her and watched as she tried to draw breath.
It took several minutes until she stopped merely dragging in stuttering inhalations, and gradually began inhaling and exhaling alternately. His grip slowly loosened and he slowly turned to glare at Healer Stroud. His expression was enraged.
"You know she is prone to panic attacks. You cannot spring information on her," his said in a furious voice, still holding Hermione firmly by the shoulders as she continued crying.
"I thought the panicking was solely caused by open spaces." Stroud folded her arms over her chest, and raised her chin. "Given how terrified she is of your father, I thought she'd be relieved."
"Perhaps try thinking more," Malfoy said icily. "I am beginning to suspect that you are intentionally traumatising her. You threatened her with my father and dosed her with a aphrodisiac without warning. Are you trying to cause her to have a mental breakdown?"
Healer Stroud snorted as she cast a diagnostic on Hermione. "I'm not doing anything that risks compromising her memories; there's no need to concern yourself. I've been quite anxious over their recovery ever since I realised she was the one responsible for Sussex." Stroud eyed Hermione coldly. "I'm curious how a witch who never even graduated Hogwarts, and without any formal training, single-handedly constructed a bomb capable of killing all my colleagues."
There was a long pause interspersed by Hermione's broken sobs as Malfoy stared at Stroud.
"She was a Resistance terrorist trained throughout Europe to become a healer specialised in deconstructing Sussex's curses; not to mention that she had a Potion mastery. If she could take apart and neutralise a curse, she could also use it. If you'd been so curious you could have asked me," he said in a cold voice. "Psychologically torturing her is not going to give you answers, particularly since she has no memory of it. Your program is not an opportunity to exact revenge. You appear to have forgotten that I do not suffer fools tampering with her."
"I wasn't-"
"You were. The Dark Lord placed her under my care. You are aware of how precarious she is. I have gone to considerable expense and effort to maintain her environment. Given that Dark Lord made no objections when I executed one of his marked followers for interference, do you really think he'd trouble himself over you?"
Stroud's pallor grew deathly. "My program-"
"Is a farce." Malfoy sneered as he said it. "The reason you didn't die alongside your 'colleagues' in Sussex is because your proposal failed to qualify as scientifically sound enough to qualify for a laboratory there. Where are your controls? Or your statistics and historical data? The spectacle you're so willing to provide the society pages is funded and staffed to easily carry on without you." Malfoy's eyes glittered viciously as he spoke. "This is the only warning I'll offer. You are no longer permitted to be alone with her. Today's appointment is over. If you have new instructions regarding her care, you'll give them to me. Topsy!"
The House-elf appeared with a crack. Malfoy didn't remove his eyes from Stroud.
"Escort Stroud to the drawing room. I'll be down when I'm done dealing with the situation here."
Stroud huffed, but she was still pale and her hands shook as she gathered her files. As the door shut, Malfoy turned back to stare down at Hermione. She had stopped crying and was trying to breathe steadily.
He gave a low sigh and then pulled her to her feet.
"Come," he said as he led her across the room to her bed, studying her carefully before reaching into his robes and withdrawing a vial of Dreamless Sleep Draught. "Considering recent events I'm afraid I don't trust you conscious and alone. Take this."
Hermione extended a leaden hand and accepted the vial but then stared down at it hesitantly. Her breath kept hitching.
"Some Potions can result in fetal abnormalities. I don't-remember whether Dreamless Sleep is safe," she said in a wavering voice.
"It's fine."
She glanced up at Malfoy. How on earth would he know that?
He met her eyes. "I was concerned something like this might happen if you ever got pregnant. I verified it."
She continued to hesitate.
"I'm not asking. If you refuse I will make you," he said in a hard voice.
Hermione pressed her lips together and swallowed hard as her chest continued to stutter. She unstoppered the vial unsteadily and brought it to her lips. As soon as she swallowed the contents, she choked and burst into tears again. The vial slipped from her hands and plunged down onto the floor, shattering.
"Oh god..." She sobbed into her hands as the potion hit her system and overtook her mind like a black tidal wave. She sank onto the bed. "Oh god...oh god...please."
Her eyes slid shut as she continued to cry. She was dimly aware of her legs been lifted up onto the mattress. Darkness swallowed her.
"I'm sorry, Granger."