2
Hermione woke slowly, her head throbbing in rhythm with her pounding heart. Every part of her body ached as if she’d fallen straight onto unyielding ground—and the sharp pressure of rocks digging into her back confirmed it. Groaning softly, she opened her eyes to a starry sky, the night crisp and indifferent.
The memory of the glowing flowers and blinding light rushed back to her, and she sat up abruptly, only to immediately close her eyes again as pain shot through her skull. She stayed still, breathing deeply, until the pounding dulled enough for her to try again.
When she opened her eyes once more, the first thing she saw was a pair of polished dragonhide boots. Her gaze traveled upward to find Draco Malfoy towering over her, his arms crossed and a furious expression darkening his sharp features. His gray eyes glinted coldly in the moonlight.
He didn’t say a word, just stared down at her, his jaw tight with barely contained irritation.
Hermione’s stomach turned uneasily, a strange and unwelcome sense of vulnerability settling over her. She tore her gaze away and looked around frantically. “Where’s Harry?”
Malfoy’s sneer deepened as he took a deliberate step forward. “I told you not to touch those flowers, Granger,” he said icily.
Hermione scrambled back, gravel biting into her palms as she tried to put some distance between them. She staggered to her feet, her fingers fumbling for her wand. “Where’s Harry?” she demanded again, her voice sharper this time.
“Stuck outside the property lines,” Malfoy said, his tone clipped. His black robes swirled slightly as he gestured around them. “He can’t get in. And thanks to your complete inability to follow basic instructions, neither of us can get out.”
“What?” Hermione’s heart was racing now, a cold dread spreading through her limbs. “What are you talking about?”
“When you touched those flowers,” Malfoy bit out, stepping closer, “you triggered old family magic. Ancient wards. The kind that doesn’t take kindly to uninvited guests messing with things they don’t understand.”
Hermione’s chest tightened as the weight of his words sank in. “Do you know how to break it?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts.
“No,” Malfoy said bluntly, his frown deepening. “We’re trapped here indefinitely. Until Potter and his merry band of Aurors figure out how to break the wards—which, by the way, won’t be easy. Old family magic doesn’t just unravel because you want it to.”
Hermione bit her lip hard, trying to stave off the rising panic. Her throat burned as tears threatened to spill, but she forced them back. She wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of Malfoy.
“I want to talk to Harry,” she said, her voice firmer now.
Malfoy waved a hand dismissively toward the gates in the distance. “He’s outside. Yelling your name like a particularly annoying ghost. But I doubt he has anything more useful to tell you than I just did.”
Ignoring him, Hermione turned sharply and began marching toward the gates, the gravel crunching beneath her boots. Her head still pounded, and her limbs felt leaden, but she pushed through the discomfort, focusing solely on getting to Harry.
Behind her, Malfoy muttered something she couldn’t make out, his tone dripping with disdain. She didn’t care. She just needed answers—or, at the very least, a reassuring word—from Harry.
As Hermione approached the towering iron gates, she spotted Harry pacing just beyond them, his familiar figure lit faintly by the moonlight. His frantic movements slowed as he caught sight of her.
“Hermione!” Harry called out, relief thick in his voice. “Merlin, am I glad to see you. Malfoy said you were fine, but I can’t trust a word he says. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Hermione began, stepping closer to the gate. But as she neared, an intense burning sensation spread across her skin, forcing her to stumble back with a sharp gasp.
Harry frowned, his hands gripping the bars as if he could pull her through by sheer will. “I know this is scary, but I swear I’ll find a way to get you out. I promise, Hermione.”
Hermione’s chest tightened as reality sank in. “So Malfoy wasn’t lying,” she said quietly, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks. “I’m really stuck here?”
Harry’s jaw clenched, his green eyes filled with guilt and determination. “I’m sorry, Hermione. I’ll call in every favor I can. Every single one. I won’t stop until you’re out of there.”
She sniffled, trying to steady her trembling hands. “So I’m just supposed to stay here? With *Malfoy*?”
Harry nodded reluctantly, his face darkening. “I’ve already talked to him. He’s had his house-elves set up a room for you in the manor. But if he so much as thinks about hurting you—” Harry’s voice sharpened, his expression hardening in a way that reminded Hermione of just how dangerous he could be. “The second those wards are down, I’ll kill him.”
Hermione let out a shaky laugh, half in disbelief and half because the absurdity of the situation was starting to weigh on her. “And to think, just a few hours ago, I was so excited to move into my new flat.”
Harry’s expression softened, and he offered her a sympathetic smile. “I’ll have Ginny help set it up for you. And Crookshanks can stay with us until you’re home. I’ll be here every day at this gate to give you updates, I promise.”
She nodded, wiping at her tear-streaked face. “Thank you, Harry. I love you.”
“I love you too, Hermione.” His voice was steady, filled with a brotherly affection that made her feel both comforted and painfully isolated.
Hermione lingered for a moment, watching her best friend, her last tether to the outside world. “I’ll meet you back here first thing in the morning?”
“I’ll be here,” he assured her with a small, reassuring smile.
With a heavy heart, Hermione turned away, the weight of the night pressing down on her shoulders as she began the long walk back to the manor. The path, though the same as before, felt colder and less inviting, the glowing flowers now appearing almost malevolent in their beauty.
The vast silhouette of the manor loomed ahead, its dark windows like empty eyes watching her approach. She straightened her back, steeling herself.
Miffy met Hermione at the manor's entrance, bouncing on her tiny feet with an energy that felt out of place in the eerie, quiet house. “Masters is asking Miffy to show Miss Grangers her room now,” the elf said, her voice high and formal.
Hermione’s exhaustion weighed on her like a heavy cloak, dampening her usual inclination to question the ethics of house-elf servitude. On another day, in another circumstance, she might have sought Malfoy out immediately to argue about it. But now? Now she just wanted to get through the night.
She nodded silently, following the little elf up a grand staircase that creaked underfoot, the sound echoing faintly in the vast, empty space. The air in the manor felt heavy and still, as if it had been holding its breath for years.
As they turned a corner, Hermione couldn’t help but notice the starkness of the hallways. The walls were bare, devoid of paintings or even tapestries to break the monotony. What few portraits there were had been covered with heavy cloths, their frames draped in shadows. It was as though someone had tried to erase any trace of the manor’s history, leaving behind an unsettling void.
If she didn’t know for a fact that Malfoy was still somewhere in the house, Hermione might have believed it was abandoned.
“This way, Miss Granger,” Miffy said, her voice chipper as she led Hermione to the very end of a dim corridor. The elf reached up to push open a door, stepping aside to let Hermione inside. “Here’s we is, Miss Granger.”
Hermione hesitated in the doorway, blinking in surprise. The room was vast, easily larger than her entire flat, but it wasn’t the size that struck her. Unlike the rest of the manor, which felt cold and uninviting, this space was warm and unexpectedly charming.
A large four-poster bed dominated the room, draped with soft silk sheets in a pale blue that caught the glow of the fire crackling in the ornate fireplace. A plush sitting area was arranged nearby, complete with two armchairs and a low table, and two towering bookshelves lined the far wall, their shelves brimming with books. Hermione’s eyes lingered there for a moment, instinctively cataloging the titles she could make out.
The walls were painted a soft, buttery yellow, and the curtains framing the tall windows matched the delicate blues of the bedding. A sense of calm radiated from the space, as though someone had gone to great lengths to make it inviting.
Miffy beamed up at her, clearly proud. “Miffy has prepared the room just as Master is wanting. There’s also a private bathroom,” she added, gesturing to a door on the other side of the room.
Hermione stepped inside cautiously, her fingers brushing over the smooth wood of the doorframe. “Thank you, Miffy,” she said softly, though her mind raced with questions. Had Malfoy chosen this room for her himself? Had it been prepared in advance, or was this simply one of the few livable spaces left in the sprawling house?
The elf gave her a quick bow and popped away without another word, leaving Hermione alone with the crackling fire and her scattered thoughts.
She let out a shaky breath and wandered to the nearest armchair, sinking into it with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. The warmth of the room seeped into her bones, and for the first time that night, she allowed herself to relax slightly.
Her eyes drifted to the bookshelves again, and despite everything, she felt a flicker of curiosity. Perhaps tomorrow, once she’d had some rest, she’d explore them. But for now, she was content to sit in the firelight, letting the strange stillness of the manor settle around her like a blanket.
Hermione sat in the armchair through the night, her gaze fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace. The warmth should have lulled her into some semblance of rest, but sleep remained elusive. Even in this surprisingly comforting room, there was no way she could bring herself to close her eyes in the depths of Malfoy’s manor.
As the first rays of morning light crept through the curtains, painting the walls in soft gold, Hermione sighed and shifted. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her sleeve, twisting the fabric between her thumb and forefinger. How could she have been so reckless? What on earth had compelled her to touch those flowers?
The thought churned in her mind like a storm. It was entirely her fault that she was trapped here, and the weight of that realization settled heavily in her chest. She despised herself for it, the knot of guilt tightening with every moment she replayed the scene in her head.
Finally, Hermione pushed herself up from the chair. Her muscles protested after sitting still for so long, but she ignored the ache as she made her way to the bathroom door. With a deep breath, she pushed it open, revealing a space that was every bit as grand as the bedroom.
The bathroom was tiled in elegant cream and gold, with a clawfoot tub that gleamed under the soft light from a high window. A large, gilded mirror hung above a marble sink, and the air smelled faintly of lavender.
Hermione stepped inside and turned to the mirror, wincing at her reflection. Tear stains streaked her cheeks, and her hair was a wild mess with tiny bits of gravel still tangled in the curls. She reached up, pulling her hair into a quick bun to contain the chaos, and leaned over the sink to splash cold water on her face.
The water was bracing, and she let it drip down her cheeks for a moment before reaching for a soft towel to pat herself dry. She stared at herself again, feeling marginally more presentable, but no less weary.
Leaving the bathroom, Hermione crossed back into the bedroom. She paused at the door, her hand hovering over the cool metal of the knob.
She had no desire to face Malfoy or any part of the house beyond this room. Yet she knew she couldn’t stay here forever—not if Harry was going to be at the gates waiting for her. Resolving that her only excursions from this room would be to meet him, she tightened her grip on the knob.
The idea of exploring the manor stirred a faint curiosity in her, but she shoved it down. Curiosity had already landed her in this mess. It wouldn’t help her now.
Steeling herself, Hermione opened the door and stepped into the dim hallway, the silence of the house pressing in around her.
Hermione had barely taken a few steps when Miffy appeared in front of her with a sharp pop. The little elf's sudden appearance made Hermione jump, and she instinctively placed a hand over her chest.
“Miffy is asking where Miss Granger is going?” the elf said, her wide green eyes blinking up at her.
“You scared me,” Hermione said, trying to steady her breathing. “I’m just going to meet my friend, Harry, at the gates.”
Miffy tilted her head, one long ear twisting between her tiny fingers. “Miffy take Miss Granger there?”
“Oh no, that’s alright. I’ll walk,” Hermione replied, forcing a polite smile. “And please, call me Hermione. Miss Granger sounds so formal.”
The elf frowned, her face scrunching in thought as if this request went against every rule of her existence. “But Miffy insists on taking Miss—Hermione to the gates,” she finally said, emphasizing the name like it was something foreign on her tongue.
Hermione hesitated, her instincts tugging against accepting the offer. Yet, the thought of having to navigate the vast, quiet grounds alone—especially when she barely knew her way—gave her pause. She eyed Miffy’s outstretched hand before finally relenting with a small sigh.
“Oh, alright,” Hermione said, placing her hand in the elf’s.
The sensation of being Apparated was as unpleasant as ever. The world twisted and turned, her stomach lurching uncomfortably before the ground solidified beneath her feet once more.
They appeared right at the edge of the gates. Hermione took a steadying breath as she adjusted to the sudden shift, blinking a few times to regain her bearings.
“Thank you, Miffy,” she said, turning to the elf.
Miffy gave a small bow, her ears twitching. “Miffy waits here for Hermione to finish.”
Hermione opened her mouth to argue, but the elf’s resolute expression stopped her. Instead, she simply nodded, her gaze shifting to where Harry was already pacing just beyond the gate.
Ginny appeared from behind Harry, her bright red hair catching the sunlight. “Hermione! I’m so glad to see you’re alright,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.
“Ginny!” Hermione stepped as close to the gate as the burning wards would allow, her heart lifting at the sight of her friend.
“Oh, Hermione,” Ginny said, her hands gripping the iron bars of the gate as if she could tear them apart by sheer will. “I waited at your flat all night, and when Harry came back without you and told me what happened—this is so unfair. But we’re going to get you out. I promise.”
“It’s my fault I’m stuck here, anyway,” Hermione muttered, guilt pressing on her like a heavy weight.
Harry’s expression darkened. “No, it’s not. Malfoy should’ve explained what those flowers do instead of spouting that stupid cryptic nonsense.”
Hermione let out a dry laugh, one without humor. “Right. Since when has Malfoy ever made things easier for anyone but himself?”
“Any news?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Harry shook his head, looking down briefly before meeting her gaze again. “Not yet. But I’m meeting Kingsley in an hour or so. We’ll work something out, Hermione. I promise.”
Ginny stepped closer, her face determined. “You listen to me, Hermione Jean Granger—we *will* get you out of here. If I have to tear this whole bloody manor down brick by brick, I’ll do it.”
Hermione couldn’t help but smile, even as her throat tightened. “Thanks, Ginny.”
The three of them exchanged reassurances over and over again, until Ginny and Harry finally Apparated away, leaving Hermione to stare at the empty space they had occupied.
“Miffy take Miss—Hermione back now?” the little house-elf asked, appearing at her side with a soft pop.
Hermione hesitated before nodding. “Yes, please.”
In an instant, she was back in her room. The air still held the faint warmth from the fire, though the sight of the grand space did little to comfort her now.
“Miffy had other elves make breakfast,” the elf said, pointing to the small table by the window. It was laden with an array of food: fluffy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, golden pastries, and a steaming pot of tea.
Hermione blinked at the spread, her stomach growling in protest even as her mind wavered. “Thank you, Miffy. That’s very kind of you.”
Miffy gave a low bow before popping away, leaving Hermione alone with the food. She sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed on the table. While she doubted the elves would poison her, the thought that their loyalty ultimately lay with Malfoy was unsettling.
Her stomach growled again, but she ignored it, pulling her knees up and curling against the plush bedding. The room’s warmth and comfort did little to ease the gnawing unease in her chest. Before long, exhaustion overtook her, and she let herself sink into the soft mattress. Despite everything, sleep pulled her under, offering a brief escape from the labyrinth of worries in her mind.