Nobody’s Daughter

Hermione was ushered from the room, down a dark hallway, and into a bathroom by an incredibly persistent House Elf.
“Miss is to get clean,” squeaked the House Elf. Hermione stared at her for a moment, her mouth dropping open just slightly. She looks around the bathroom. There’s a clawfoot tub sitting regally at her back. Her wrists are still bound together; the chain that dangles to her feet just isn’t secured to the floor anymore. Hermione leans against the nearest wall and slowly kicks off her sneakers.
The very last thing she wants is to be naked, in any capacity, inside of Malfoy Manor.
The House Elf busies herself for a moment with running water for the bath, but eventually notices Hermione struggling to take off her shirt. She chitters as though horrified by this oversight, and without warning, Hermione’s clothes are vanished. She gasps and uses her hands to cover her chest, turning towards the wall in an attempt to hide herself.
The House Elf simply grabs her by her bare hips and pulls her away from the wall. She’s pushing her towards the bathtub, and the only thing that makes sense is for Hermione to go willingly.
“Pinky has seen plenty of bodies, Miss,” chides the Elf as Hermione steps into the water. She keeps her hands close to her chest and sinks into the bath. Admittedly, it feels absolutely incredible. The warm water helps to soothe her aches and pains immediately. And another thing Malfoy was (regrettably) right about—she’s filthy. Pinky hands her a soapy sponge and hums quietly to herself as she disappears from view. Hermione nods gratefully and sets about scrubbing herself of the dirt that had accumulated from her weeks in the cell.
After a moment, Hermione’s head is being pulled backwards by tiny, leathery hands. She resists, drawing her head back into an upright position, audibly protesting.
“Your hair, Miss!” Pinky is quite clearly frustrated with Hermione at this point. “Pinky is washing it. You can’t wash it in dirty water.”
Hermione stares down at the bathwater. Although washing her hair with dirty water is hardly the largest indignity of her recent life, perhaps it can be avoided. She sighs and nods, laying her head back against the lip of the bathtub. There’s a bucket of clean, warm water sitting next to Pinky. Hermione’s not sure how she’s going to complete the task without getting water everywhere, but it’s not her bathroom. Hermione only hopes Pinky doesn’t make a mess that will get her punished later. The guilt of allowing a House Elf to bathe her creeps into her chest and is quickly soothed by the feeling of perfectly warm water in her hair.
Pinky washes her hair with an admirable devotion. The feeling of her scalp being scrubbed is so pleasurable after months of cold and hard and hurt that Hermione could have wept. Once she’s sufficiently washed and conditioned, Pinky sets about combing through the knots and tangles in her curls. That part is painful, but Hermione’s immeasurably grateful for it. Her hair is piled atop her head and secured so that Hermione can resume the rest of her bath.
Once she’s clean, Pinky helps her step out of the tub and into a fluffy white towel. Hermione has to hold her arms out so that the towel could be wrapped around her—even considering the context of the shackles, she’s glad that she can move her hand as little as possible. The pain and bruising and swelling along her knuckles and wrist give her concern that she broke it on Lucius Malfoy’s face.
Pinky continues to usher her around by placing both hands at the small of her back and pushing her towards the intended direction. The bathroom is an en suite and she’s pushed through a doorway into a bedroom. Hermione nearly trips on the chain of the shackles. There’s a set of clothes folded at the foot of the bed. Hermione looks at Pinky, again unsure of the logistics. Pinky nods dutifully and snaps; the clothes arrange themselves onto Hermione’s body.
Hermione looks down at the outfit with gritted teeth. Malfoy has no shame at all. He’s dressed her in a long sleeved white button up, a tightly-fitted black knit vest, a black skirt that barely covers her ass, and black stockings—the vest is emblazoned with the Slytherin crest. At least he gave her underwear. The implication of the alternative makes her sick.
“He’s joking, right?” Hermione asks Pinky heatedly. “He must be joking.”
Pinky stares at her with wide eyes. She looks devastated. “Pinky is sorry that Miss doesn’t like the clothes,” she warbles, her eyes brimming with tears. “We don’t have many ladyfolk at the Manor, Pinky had to take some of Mistress Narcissa’s old clothes.”
Hermione is somehow further mortified. Malfoy hadn’t picked them out. That’s a small comfort—he wasn’t trying to embarrass her. But in her indignation, she’d upset Pinky. She shakes her head quickly.
“No, no!” Hermione exclaims, “I like them just fine. Really, Pinky, anything’s better than being in dirty clothes. They’re just… a little snug, is all.”
Pinky nods seriously and continues to look up at her with wet eyes. “They’re quite old, Miss.”
Hermione takes a breath and nods. Most Hogwarts girls abandoned the skirt after their fourth year. If the clothes were Narcissa’s, they were old indeed, and explained why they’re so tight on Hermione.
“They’re in fabulous condition,” Hermione attempts to palliate Pinky’s horror. “You must take incredible care of the laundry.”
Pinky beams at her with an emphatic nod. Her eyes continue to sparkle with tears. Hermione wishes she’d drowned herself in the bathtub.
Shortly, she was in a new room. She knows it’s a Manor, but the number of rooms is….astounding. In the few hours she’d been there, she'd seen the inside of three rooms and walked past what felt like a thousand doorways.
The room is sparsely decorated and furnished. The walls are painted a rich emerald with black crown molding. The sconces, doorknobs, and chandelier are made of glittery silver, shinier than Hermione has ever seen. Excessively shiny, if she’s being honest. The luxury of the Manor reeks of self-indulgence and vanity. It’s not simply an old, beautiful house; it’s the Malfoy’s showroom of wealth and status.
She sits at a table in the center of the room. There’s a metal ring in the center to which the chain of her shackles was clipped. She’s in a chair, but her hands are extended in front of her. This must be their prisoner table, she thinks irritably, seeing as how readily available a piece of furniture suited to restrain someone is.
The obnoxiously well-fixtured door swings open and Malfoy strides through it. Hermione can really get a look at him now. The boyishness of his face has faded; he’s angular and sharp. The fear and insecurity so prevalent in his features their last two years at Hogwarts has morphed into a strange combination of deadly confidence and preoccupation. His body language is loose, nearly languid, as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. But his eyes are clouded, mind lost in thought.
They clear as he approaches her.
Malfoy rests his hands on the back of the chair opposite her and simply stares. His eyes run over her hair, her face, her clothes, her hands. After a moment, he cracks a wide smile. It unsettles Hermione’s stomach. Her hands clench into fists but the pain that rockets up her left arm makes her regret it.
“Why am I here?” She asks, looking up at him with a face set with resentment. She hopes the anxiety she’s feeling doesn’t make its way to the surface.
“You know, I’ve always thought you’d make a good Slytherin,” Malfoy says as though he didn’t hear her. “Barring the whole… sullied bloodline issue.” One of his hands lifts to wave through the air, as though the silly bloodline issue isn’t the reason she sits in front of him—chained to his table. Her fists tighten.
“Why you were sorted into Gryffindor is truly a mystery,” he continues, beginning to pace the distance of his side of the table. He’s looking at her challengingly, like he wants her to engage with him. Wants her to speak. She does not.
“It made sense in the first year. Brash, outspoken, dumb enough to befriend Harry Potter and unafraid of playing along with his schemes and hairbrained ideas. But as the years went on and it became clear that your single redeeming trait is in that frizzy head of yours, I began to wonder why Griffyndor and not Ravenclaw. That’s where all the brains go, isn’t it? Wisdom, wit, what have you. But you’re something else, too. Something the Slytherins covet. You’re cunning.”
He’s made his way around the table now, leaning against the edge of it right next to her. She glares up at him silently. Her frustration is burning through her. He seems intent on talking her to death, giving her his unbidden notions of her psychology. He stares at her with a raised eyebrow—expectant. Still wanting her to speak. Her silence is the one act of defiance she has in this moment; she clings to it.
“Of course, if you weren’t, your friends would’ve been dead a long time ago.”
She flinches and looks at the table. The mention of Ron and Harry’s death was expected, but hurt nonetheless. Is that what he wants from her? Her wit, her cunning? What could she possibly provide for him that he couldn’t demand from anyone else in his ranks, seeing as how he’s suddenly so powerful?
Malfoy notices the flash of pain. “Speaking of your friends. Where is Harry Potter?”
Hermione’s eyes flash back to his. “He’s dead.”
Is he just trying to rub it in? Malfoy knows Harry is dead. Hermione is there because Harry is dead. Malfoy most likely witnessed Harry’s death.
“Ah,” he says airily with a sage nod. “An excellent way to subvert the consequences of a final meeting between Potter and the Dark Lord, isn’t it? A conceivable lie. Harry Potter dies mysteriously and no Death Eater is found responsible. The Dark Lord never has to face him—or he never has to face the Dark Lord, depending on perspective. The Death Eaters seize control, Potter vanishes into thin air to regain his strength and recuperate so that he can strike when he’s ready. That was the plan, wasn't it?”
Hermione’s staring at him with an expression of complete and total confoundment. There was no plan. Harry was not whisked to safety in order to prevent his death. In fact, Harry’s death precipitated many others. Hundreds others. But there sits Draco Malfoy, spinning a tale of deceit and tactic that suggests that Voldemort did not kill Harry. The simple word of why? screams through her brain.
Malfoy’s eyes burn into hers. “Of course, the Daily Prophet reported him dead. We couldn’t have the Wizarding world believe that the regime was temporary until Potter swoops down to rescue them all. You were the missing link, unfortunately. Harry Potter and all of his consorts dead… minus the famously smart one, found at a London train station trying to return to him. No, that story wouldn’t do. Hermione Granger was apprehended by the Death Eaters shortly after the final battle and executed as a traitor.”
Malfoy’s fingers lift to brush against her jaw. She starts violently in her seat, jerking away from him. When he speaks again, his voice is soft. Almost silken. “Wasn’t she?”
“No,” Hermione hisses, acid burning her throat. “I was not. Harry and Ron were killed at the Battle of Hogwarts. I was separated from them, trying to help another student. I found out with everyone else, and I ran. I was just trying to make it out of London so you lot wouldn’t do…”—she pauses to shake the chains that bind her—“exactly this.”
Malfoy lets out a small chuckle, shaking his head. He pushes himself off of the table and stalks back around to his side, bracing his hands against it. He levels his attention on her again. “Would you prefer to be executed as a traitor, Granger?”
Hermione’s jaw clenches. “Instead of being locked inside of Malfoy Manor for you to do whatever the hell you want with me? Surrounded by Death Eaters and watching you politic and prance about in your bespoke thousand Galleon shoes? I bloody well might prefer execution.”
Malfoy’s eyes glitter. He doesn’t look offended, he looks… amused. “Or,” he says as he pulls his chair out from the table and sinks into it, “you can help me, and earn your freedom. Tell me where to find him, and you have my word that you will no longer be a prisoner. You may keep your life, and you will be released.”
He’s lying. The entire war was fought on the basis of eradicating the Mudbloods. Allowing one to live freely is directly antithetical to his entire mission. And he’s offering that as a reward for finding a boy that’s been dead for two months. Why Malfoy is under the impression that Harry survived Voldemort, Hermione hasn’t the foggiest idea. Maybe he’s trying to manipulate and confuse her, wanting to tempt her with freedom and set her up to fail so that she dies thinking it was her own inadequacy that killed her.
Malfoy will not win a battle of wills with her. Hermione will die knowing that.
Something else strikes her. Neville’s shrieks of madness, oft heard though the boy was never seen. Horror pools in her stomach. “You’ve been torturing Neville for this information, haven’t you?”
Malfoy raises an eyebrow and leans back in his seat. “Strong work. But no, I am not personally torturing Longbottom. One of my associates was assigned to interrogate him. Unfortunately, he’s half mad now. Pity when the apple is so close to the ground that it simply… rolls, instead of falls.” Malfoy waves his hand again, fingers fluttering to mimic an apple rolling across the ground.
Hermione jerks forward out of her chair, rage spilling through her. She’s leaning halfway across the table. How dare he? How dare he joke about Neville being orphaned because his horrendous, disgusting aunt tortured them into insanity? How can he be so cruel as to joke about Neville suffering the same fate? She’s tempted to dive across the table, wrap her hands around his throat, and choke the smugness out of him. He watches her with cruel amusement. He even leans in, looking at her like a naughty schoolboy who isn’t the least bit remorseful. He smirks lightly.
“Go on then, Granger,” he taunts, “give into your most carnal urges. Just like the dirty blooded thing you are.”
Hermione fumes as she stares at him, her chest heaving with the effort of her breath. She hates him. She wants him dead. Even with the shackles, she could reach him.
“I’ll help you.” Malfoy grabs her wrist—the uninjured one, thankfully—and jerks it off the table. Hermione nearly loses her balance with the strength of it and has to prop herself on the table with a knee to keep herself steady. He uses his hands to force her own against his throat, manipulating her fingers so they wrap around it. Hermione can feel herself shaking. He watches her darkly and leans into the grip she has on his throat, the grip he’s fashioned himself. “You’re so close. Go on.”
Hermione tells herself to pick up her free hand, join it with the one on his throat, and carry out the deed. But she’s frozen, her entire body trembling, her eyes locked with Malfoy’s. She can feel his pulse under her fingers, his breath in his throat. She has the power to kill him but she feels like a mouse caught in a trap.
The way he’s looking at her makes her skin crawl. It’s as though she’s answered a burning curiosity—if given the chance, is she a murderer? Could she kill him? Does she have the drive, is she willing? She’s livid with herself that the answer to all of those questions is no.
Hermione can’t even blink in the time that she finds herself shoved back into her chair. She makes a noise of shock from deep in her throat. Malfoy has vanished the table and pushed her across the space that was freed, back into her chair. She drops the grip on his throat in the motion. He’s looming over her, his hands braced against the back of the chair. She’s completely bracketed in by him.
“You need to consider your position,” he murmurs. He’s so close that his breath brushes against her nose. “You’re either trapped here, clothed and bathed and fed, or you’re sleeping in the floor of a dirty prison cell at the mercy of unsupervised Death Eaters. Do you think anyone cares what happens to you, so long as you survive long enough to give the Dark Lord what he seeks?”
Hermione is still shaking. Her eyes are burning with tears that she’s fighting back with every ounce of strength that she has. He will not win. She’s not going to cry.
“The worst thing you will feel here is the same anger you felt a moment ago. You have the chance to free yourself by succumbing to the inevitable. If I send you back, you’ll continue to be abused, and then you’ll be killed. I know you Griffyndors aren’t burdened with an overabundance of self-preservation instinct, but this is your chance to be better.”
Hermione’s aghast as a single tear threatens her bottom lashes.
“Draco,” she whispers, her hands gripping the seat of her chair, “he’s dead.”
Something flickers behind Malfoy’s eyes. He raises a hand and she flinches, squeezing her eyes shut as she braces herself to be hit. The tear slides down her cheek. His thumb brushes it away. The motion is so shockingly gentle that it forces her to open her eyes. He tilts her head to look back at him.
“He’s alive,” he says. His voice, similarly, is shockingly gentle. “You were not there. I was. I don’t know if you truly thought he was dead, or if you’re just protecting him. Don’t make me tear your mind apart to find the answer. Regardless, if anyone knows where he’s hiding, it’s you.”
Hermione draws a shaking breath. “I didn’t know,” she says. She does not have the bandwidth to process this information or figure out if Malfoy is lying. She only knows that he believes Harry is alive and won’t be swayed to believe otherwise, and her only recourse is to make him think that she believes him. He leans in until his face is so close to hers that she can feel the warmth of his skin.
“You’re going to help me, Granger.”
His voice is terrifyingly close to her ear. She shivers and tries to shrink into the seat.
Malfoy pulls away from her. The expression on his face could be mistaken for pity, if Hermione believed him to be someone decent enough to feel such a thing. The sudden distance makes her feel cold. Not that she wants him close, but warmth has become so unfamiliar. He regards her for only a moment before turning and striding across the room, glancing back long enough to wave his wand. She jolts with fear as a spell rockets across the room, but she feels the cold metal around her wrists dissolve. He’s unshackled her.
Malfoy leaves her there, more confused and disturbed than she could’ve possibly imagined.