Nobody’s Daughter

Hermione’s father is a charismatic man. He’s intelligent, witty, and full of ridiculous anecdotes and silly jokes. He used to sit on the couch with his legs crossed, reporting to Hermione and her mother the events in the newspaper as though it was his duty. Hermione would look up from her book; her mother would watch with twinkling eyes over a cup of tea. Some articles would enrapture him completely, and he’d offer a hearty laugh when he finished reading. His voice comes to her so clearly—“You know that they say, Meeny. To fuck around is human, and to find out is divine.”
Meeny. Silly little nickname, an amalgam of “Mione” and “teeny”. Hermione only knew ‘they’ said this because her father did. She never quite understood what he meant; is it a condemnation of whoever has fucked around? A simple explanation of cause and effect? A way to say that humans are bound to their feckless actions by virtue of sight unseen and the divine is the one real truth?
Hermione thinks, now, that she’s fucked around and subsequently found out. It wasn’t divinity, though; it was Malfoy, and he’s most certainly a demonic being dragged from the bottommost pits of hell. There are many things about which she is confused; that fact isn’t one of them.
And what does that make her, exactly? She kissed him to catch him off guard, melt some of the fear and anger into desire and perhaps even affection. She had a plan. Exploit the sliver of humanity by using a decidedly human imperative. But the human imperative exploited her, too. Pleasure, enjoyment, enthusiasm, moaning, for fuck’s sake—none of that was in her plan. What’s worse is that she felt all of those things, and still something gave her away.
Hermione sinks deeper into the blankets. He said she kicked him while he was down, and that she was also ‘truly vile’. Was kissing him during a moment of emotional turmoil—even sexually encouraging him—really as bad as hunting a victim for slaughter? It was meant to make him feel better, even if it was for her own means. He seemed to enjoy it. More than enjoy it, really, he seemed completely intoxicated. The way he’d kissed her… it was like he’d been waiting for the moment. Like something inside of him broke.
Hermione’s swimming in a bottomless brine of emotions. She’s confused, horrified, guilty, ashamed of herself. She feels as though she’s betrayed Harry and Ron by providing an iota of potential sexual gratification to Draco Malfoy, of all people. She feels as though she’s betrayed herself for reveling in it so much in the process.
There’s a series of sudden cracks downstairs and a muted inundation of voices. Hermione sinks even further into the blankets, pulling them over her head. She doesn’t want to see, hear, or think about anyone—much less the people downstairs, who are almost surely Death Eaters. What do Death Eaters do at gatherings, she wonders? Collect around a large round table and recount their recent murders, brutalizations, and worse cruelties? Fantasize about mass murders of the Mudbloods? Compare wand sizes?
Hermione doesn’t hear her door open, but the blankets are pulled off of her head suddenly and she’s bathed in light. She makes a noise of frustration and opens her mouth to ask Pinky to leave her alone, but it’s not Pinky. Malfoy stands next to her bed, a slightly harried and grim look on his face. He grabs her shoulders and pulls her into a sitting position. She’s suddenly petrified; he looks anxious, and she’s not eager to discover what his retaliation for last night is going to be.
“Get up,” he orders her briskly. His hands wrap around hers and he pulls her to his feet. “You need to get dressed. Now.”
Hermione rubs her eyes and opens her mouth to ask the slew of questions that pop into her head but her feet push her towards the dresser. She pulls out a set of old Hogwarts robes. Malfoy immediately shakes his head and takes them from her.
“No robes. Dress like a Muggle.”
Hermione furrows her eyebrows and reaches out for the robes again. She’ll be damned if he starts telling her how to dress, too. Malfoy extends his arm between them to keep her back and tosses the robes into a heap on the floor.
“Will you at least tell me what is going on?” She asks, growing more and more frustrated by the second.
“Granger, please shut up. Please do not fight with me right now. This one time, just shut up and play along.”
His eyes are wide and his words are sharp as knives and hurried. Not his normal lazy, drawling cadence. It surprises her so much that she simply nods and gestures for him to turn around. He shoots her a look that silently asks really?, but he turns his back to her.
Hermione dresses in the same clothes in which she arrived at the Manor—as Muggle as they come. A black long-sleeved sweater, jeans, and sneakers. Almost the second she’s finished dressing, Malfoy turns around and sweeps towards her. His hands grip her shoulders painfully.
“Just give him what he wants, alright? Don’t fight it.” There’s a crease between his eyebrows and his voice is hushed. His eyes are wide and dark. She blinks and shakes her head, her mouth open to speak, but she doesn’t know what to say. Malfoy straightens and drops his hands from her shoulders a millisecond before her bedroom door swings open. No one knocks in this house, and it’s starting to grate against her nerves.
Lucius Malfoy stands in the doorway with an upturned nose and a smug look on his face. His stony eyes glance at his son; an aura of regality and command has dawned on Malfoy. Lucius reaches out for Hermione and she instinctively draws back. Malfoy stops her with a hand on her back, gentle at first, but then grips the back of her neck and pushes her forwards out of the bedroom.
Hermione’s trying not to panic. Malfoy’s warning was vague at best and completely ominous. What’s waiting for her? Why does he seem so frantic and frazzled? Without her conscious input her legs resist the walk to whatever horror lays at the bottom of the stairs. When he feels the resistance, Malfoy leans in close.
“Don’t,” he warns. There’s a softer edge to his tone; it’s the faintest hint of a plea. She thinks about what he said the night before. The issue wasn’t that she lied, but that he didn’t do anything about it. He’s scared because her battling whatever is coming will reflect poorly on his ability to bring her to heel.
They reach the bottom of the stairs and the moment they turn the corner, Hermione’s faced with a small army of Death Eaters. They all stare at her as Malfoy leads her to the center of the room as though she’s the entertainment of the day. Dread and terror are racing through her. Her heart is pounding and her skin prickles with a cold sweat. The sea of Death Eaters part and the true abhorrence is revealed.
Voldemort.
Hermione’s stomach lurches painfully. Her legs are weak and she’s relying on Malfoy’s grip on her neck to stay upright. Voldemort looks even more repugnant and dreadful than she remembers; his skin is sallow and leathery, his eyes so red that it looks as though his sclera is bleeding. His face contorts into the caricature of a grin when he sees her. Malfoy stops pushing her and they stand still in the center of the room; his hand does not fall. Voldemort sweeps towards her and from the bottom of his robes, she can see his bare feet streaked with a mysterious dark, jelly-like substance. Her throat contracts as she realizes it’s probably blood.
“The Mudblood,” Voldemort sneers gleefully, stopping just short of Hermione. She forces herself to hold his gaze. He lifts one bony finger and runs the edge of his yellowed fingernail down the side of her face, her throat. Malfoy’s grip tightens and it’s all Hermione can do not to vomit. Voldemort looks at Malfoy and smirks, jerking his head. Malfoy’s grip lingers for a moment and then drops. All Hermione can see of him is his back as he strides across the room to the point Voldemort stood, clasping his hands behind his back, staring at the wall directly in front of him.
Voldemort speaks again. “You were quite a catch, little Mudblood. Do you know that? Montague was rewarded handsomely for his service.”
Hermione says nothing. Her eyes are trained on Malfoy. His face twitches almost imperceptibly at the mention of the man he murdered.
“Of course, such a shame what happened to him. Necessary, I agree. What is gifted may be stolen away in a blink. Just like that!”
Voldemort snaps his fingers an inch from Hermione’s face. The sudden sound makes her flinch. He peers closely at her, so closely that she can smell his fetid breath. Hermione’s eyes do not break from Malfoy. She needs to focus on something else, anything else, than the monster leering in her face.
“You were a gift,” Voldemort continues, taking a step back to gesture grandly to Malfoy. “Potter’s Mudblood girl, the object of Draco’s ire during his years at Hogwarts. The little cretin that dedicated herself to outpacing such a superior wizard. Oh, yes, I know all about it. I trusted that Draco would make short work of forcing your obedience.”
Another twitch in Draco’s face. Another near-gag from Hermione.
“Any of the fine men in this room would’ve appreciated my gifts. I fear that young Draco has squandered it. Imagine my disappointment to discover that the most loyal and committed among my ranks has fallen prey to filthy lies told by a filthy little girl.”
Voldemort turns his glabrous head towards Malfoy. Malfoy bows his head in return.
“My Lord, I have been too easily diverted from the mission at hand,” Malfoy says slowly. “Your warnings are well-heeded. I will ensure the girl cooperates. I swear this to you.”
From his bowed posture, Malfoy’s eyes flash to hers. A shiver runs up her spine. He looks like he’s warning her again.
“Yes, yes,” Voldemort dismisses Malfoy’s vow with a wave of his hand. He regards Hermione with a grotesque smile. “Perhaps you need some assistance with her, Draco. Perhaps she’s grown too comfortable in this house. She feels emboldened to lie and manipulate. Someone needs to remind her of her standing.”
There are murmurs of assent that echo throughout the room. Hermione squirms uncomfortably, looking around. She’s completely surrounded by Death Eaters, some faces familiar and some unknown to her. In the crowd she spots a familiar head of raven hair and a hooked nose. Snape. Her heart starts violently. She silently begs him to help her, pleading with her eyes. His eyes, however, are affixed to Malfoy. There’s a rigid set to his face.
“I’m gracious, aren’t I?” Voldemort addresses the crowd, putting on a sympathetic voice. More murmurs of assent. Even from across the room, Hermione can see Draco’s jaw clench. Hermione’s eyes drift back towards Voldemort and she catches the end of the motion of Voldemort drawing his wand.
She’s panicking now.
“Crucio!”
Hermione jerks her body backwards as the curse hurtles through the room towards her. It hits her square in the chest and she crumples to the ground. Every nerve in her body is alight with agony. There are thousands of flaming razors raking across her skin. She’s bathed in acid. She’s sure that she’s screaming, but her senses have gone dark—the only concept in her awareness is complete and total torment. It’s never ending; she wishes she’d die. She wishes Malfoy would make good on his promise to use the Killing Curse because it’s quick and clean. She wills herself to lose consciousness, to simply break under the pressure.
Voldemort enters her mind so violently that she’s able to detect it through the heavy curtain of torture. She can’t focus enough to secure her Occlumency or sense what memories he’s looking for or actively rifling through. She can’t draw memories to fling towards him to distract him; she’s completely vulnerable.
Amongst the pain, there’s a flicker of sensation. A memory swims into her awareness—the feeling of short hair between her fingers. No. No. Please, no. Her penance for lying is the Cruciatus; the penance for seducing Malfoy with the intent of manipulating him would be worse. She can’t fathom anything being worse than this… but she’s sure that Voldemort can.
It takes every ounce of life in Hermione to entrap that memory behind a wall. She’s struggling; her consciousness is trapped in her body, screaming and writhing, with the largest sliver that she could muster dedicated to defending this memory from Voldemort’s voyeurism. He plows against the walls around the memory viciously, but she won’t relent. She can’t relent.
After hours have passed, the fire leaves her. Voldemort withdraws from her mind. Hermione lays limp and prone on the ground, every breath ragged and labored; she is unable to fight the wave of nausea and she vomits. Weakly, she pushes herself away from the mess, but she barely moves.
Voldemort is speaking, but she can’t hear him. The Cruciatus has stopped but Hermione’s wish for death has not. The only knowledge she has of Harry’s whereabouts were certainly ripped from her mind and are now known to Voldemort. Hiding it from Malfoy was small potatoes in comparison. She’s failed him. She was given a chance to save him, and she failed. Tears are streaming down her face.
She doesn’t know when the voices stop or when she’s left alone in the room. She can’t even lift her head to check. It feels as though all of her muscles have been cut out from under her skin. When she feels arms wrap around her, she flinches and screams. Her throat is already so raw that the feeling makes her cough. She can hear Malfoy’s voice, low and soft, and he’s gathering her in his arms. Her face is buried in his chest. That smell again. Pleasant and overwhelming. Fingers stroke through her hair, over the length of her back. There’s a pressure on her head; it’s not painful but she can’t tell what it is. Her twitching fingers close weakly in the fabric of Malfoy’s robes.
Her hearing slowly returns to her. She can hear breathing close to her ear, quick and rough. And she can finally hear what he’s saying.
“I’m sorry,” he’s murmuring, “I’m so sorry, Granger. I’m so fucking sorry.”