Nobody’s Daughter

Hermione was sequestered into a bedroom by Pinky. The room was fairly small, but decorated just as lavishly as the rest of the Manor. The walls are a muted sage green—actually quite a gorgeous color. There’s art on the walls, fantastically old by the look of the frames, and a large bed that sits directly in the center. The room smells of pine and cedar. Is there anything in this house that isn’t somehow green themed?
Not the bedding, of course. The sheets are white and almost deliriously soft. The coverlet is a similar shade as the walls. There’s a plush gray blanket folded at the foot of the bed, and Hermione can’t help but rub it against her cheek. In the armoire, there are clothes; Hermione hoped they weren’t all retired Slytherin uniforms. Most of them were, but she could make suitable outfits from the garments provided. There were other articles of clothing too, soft fabrics and clearly expensive. Also on the foot of the bed lies a folded set of pajamas. A black set of silk shirt and pants, long sleeved and full-legged with brass buttons. Hermione dons them and tries not to think about the fact that she’s wearing Narcissa Malfoy’s nightclothes.
As she climbs into the (astoundingly) comfortable bed, her head is swimming. So much has happened today. When Lucius Malfoy and company walked into her cell, she was certain she was about to be killed. Instead she was knocked unconscious, dragged to Malfoy Manor, chained, witnessed a man murdered over his treatment of her, interrogated about her dead best friend, and… told that Harry is alive.
But he can’t be. If Harry was alive, Voldemort would’ve lost. They’d destroyed the Horcruxes. Harry… Harry had a plan. He was supposed to live. He always lived.
Why would Malfoy lie? Of course, Hermione had her original theory, and hadn’t counted that out as a possibility. The way his countenance vacillated from malicious and murderous to jovial and lighthearted to… what could she even call it? The way he’d touched her, wrapped her hand around his throat, even seeming to enjoy it?
Insane. That’s what she’d call it.
It would’ve taken a miracle for Harry to survive and even then, he wouldn’t have left Ron to his death. Or Hermione, for that matter. She doesn’t know why they haven’t killed her yet; she’d spoken with the boys about it. The assumption was that if they lost, they’d all be killed. Harry wouldn’t do that to her.
On the other hand… if Harry is alive, Hermione has to find him. It’s the only way out. For so many reasons—it’s the only way she will survive this ordeal, the only way the entirety of the Wizarding world could return to days of peace. For as long as Voldemort lives, no one would know happiness. Or comfort. Just an endless dreary day punctuated only by public executions and order under the threat of Cruciatus or worse. Hermione pulls the blankets tighter to herself as she entertains the prospect of seeing Harry again.
Hermione considers her position.
Whatever Malfoy wants him for, she’s sure that Harry’s death is the least unsavory of the options. Allowing Harry to fall into Malfoy’s clutches—or anyone else’s—is out of the question. She’d have to find him first. Assuming she wasn’t being led on a wild goose hunt. She would need to outpace and outsmart Malfoy at every turn. She needs to brush up on her Occlumency; Malfoy is a powerful Legilimens and stumbling across this plot in her mind would ensure death for Harry and Hermione both.
But if she finds him, isn’t she dragging him back into the war? Back into the snake pit from which he narrowly escaped with his life—assuming it’s true that he’s alive? If Harry escaped, he didn’t do it alone. He didn’t flee. He must’ve been dragged or forced; Harry willingly walked into a duel with Voldemort, knowing he’d almost certainly be killed. That boy would not run. She knows it.
Could she risk her own life as well as hundreds of others to potentially spare Harry from finishing things with Voldemort? The answer comes to her swiftly. It’s no. And it’s not what Harry would want, either. He was willing to die to prevent Voldemort from ascending. And in that, Hermione has a responsibility to him.
She works this over in her mind over and over again until she drifts to sleep. She sleeps fitfully, even with the plush bed. Her dreams are of green and slate gray eyes.

When Hermione wakes the next morning, she makes short business of dressing and brushing her teeth. Her hair is braided into a low plait, a few curls bounding around her face. Satisfied with her personal hygiene, she marches from the bedroom towards the main sitting area of the Manor. Attempting to guess where Malfoy will be at this time of day is impossible, so she figures she’ll walk around until she finds him or can find Pinky to ask for his location. The sitting area was empty, so she proceeded to the dining room. There Malfoy sits, sprawled in his chair, sipping from a cup of coffee. She doesn’t see much else; she walks briskly and smacks her hands down on the table to get his attention. His eyebrows shoot into his hair as he looks at her, settling somehow even further back into his chair.
“Good morning,” he greets her sarcastically, sipping from his mug. “Care for a spot of breakfast? The Elves have prepared some delectable pan au chocolates.”
“How do you know?” She demands. Her voice is brash. He blinks at her and shakes his head, both movements slow and arrogant as though she’s speaking nonsense and he’s unable to follow. “That he’s alive.”
“Bit of a daft question, isn’t it? Wouldn’t I know if he’d died? Don’t you think the Dark Lord would have mentioned it at some point?”
Hermione narrows her eyes at him. Merlin, he’s irritating. Arrogant, subversive, deflective.
“We were told he was dead.” Her words are rough, gravelly. Recounting the memory was hard enough. “The Death Eaters—you lot—you rounded us up like cattle and we were told Voldemort had triumphed over Harry Potter. I blamed myself. For months. Months, Malfoy!” She slams her hand on the table. She’s livid.
Malfoy leans in slowly, watching her with glittering eyes. She’s too wrapped up in her own agony and anger to wonder if she should be afraid.
“Yes,” he says slowly, as though this was a reasonable conclusion. “He vanished. We certainly weren’t going to tell everyone we’d lost him. Potter ran away like a coward, but it gave the Dark Lord the perfect opening. I’m sorry, are you under the impression that we’re the good guys?”
Hermione feels like all of the air has left the room. The very least Malfoy could do is believe in his cause, not openly admit that he knows he’s a monster—that he’s fighting for evil. She grits her teeth together so tightly that her jaw aches.
“I don’t know where he is,” she says bitterly, “and even if I did, I’d go find him myself—not hand him to Voldemort on a silver platter, I can tell you that as a fact.”
“Would be that you weren’t a prisoner,” he muses. “Of course, you’re free to go and do that. You’ve noticed your bedroom door isn’t locked, you’re no longer chained. The front door is open for you to stroll right out of. The Death Eaters would be on you before you could make it to the next corner, but you’re welcome to try.”
Hermione barks a laugh of frustration and rakes her fingers through her hair. “There’s a Trace on me, isn’t there?”
“No, because my colleagues are idiots. Much more talk of you running off, though, and I’ll put one on you myself.”
Silence falls between the two of them for a moment. Hermione crosses her arms across her chest. She sits in one of the chairs at the table. She’d confronted Malfoy with fire and aggression, and he didn’t rise to the challenge. The look of amusement constantly plastered across his face when she speaks stayed put. He could’ve killed or hurt her for speaking to him that way, but he didn’t. She did it on purpose—she wants to know how far she can push before it’s over the edge. Apparently, threatening to run away was the zenith before the threats came.
A plate of food appeared in front of her, piled high with fresh fruit and scrambled eggs and toast and the pan au chocolate Malfoy mentioned. A goblet of juice and a mug of coffee also appeared—creamed and sugared, by the looks of it. She glowered at him.
“Eat,” he says curtly, opening a newspaper and crossing his legs. “You’re so malnourished that looking at you unsettles my stomach.”
Hermione’s arms tighten across her chest. “I prefer tea.”
“Tell the House Elves or shut up and drink the coffee, Granger.”
Hermione sighs and lifts the coffee, taking a trepidatious sip. What if he’s poisoned it?
Malfoy rolls his eyes and smacks the newspaper down on his legs.
“Have I done anything to make you think I want you dead?” He asks, exasperated. “Have I not demonstrated how easy it is to kill someone? I assure you, poisoning the food isn’t how I’d go about it.”
He has a point, though her skepticism still pushes at her thoughts. If he wanted to kill her, it’d be easy enough. And he wouldn’t have gone to any trouble putting her in a bedroom, or giving her a bath and clothes. Why, after 7 years of Malfoy taunting and harassing her, he’s decided that her life and comfort is a priority is beyond Hermione. He says he needs her to find Harry, but she knows nothing about that—and a simple traipse of Legilimency would show him that. A traipse of Legilimency would show him everything he could want to know. Another question to pick over later.
“How would you go about it?” She takes a bite of toast. Oh, it’s incredible. Perfectly warm and crispy with warm butter. It’s the best thing she’s tasted in a long, long time.
Malfoy returns to his newspaper, but she can see a glimpse of his face. He’s considering her question. “Killing curse,” he says finally. “It’s quick and clean.”
Hermione nearly chokes on her toast. She’d asked the question, but hearing the answer was nauseating. At least the Killing curse is painless, she thinks dully. It surely beats the fate she’d meet at the hands of the others—it beats the fate of Graham Montague, surely.
“That’s how I’d kill you too,” she responds finally. She swallows her nausea with a gulp of juice.
“Would be if you had a wand. You certainly wouldn’t strangle me, we know that for sure.”
“You must be quite glad that I don’t have a wand,” she says. There’s a savage undercurrent to her words. Ribbing her for her reaction to his emotional terrorism is foul. Malfoy’s mouth draws into a smirk and he folds the newspaper before setting it down.
“For many reasons. Finish eating, meet me in the library. I’ll tell you about my findings and we can get started.”
Malfoy stands and finishes his coffee, leaving the mug on the table and striding out of the dining room. Hermione stares dejectedly at her plate for a moment before pulling off a piece of the pan au chocolate. It’s the most delicious thing Hermione has ever eaten, and she wants to scream.