Hermione had lost track of time weeks ago, or was it months ago? She had learned that time could take on this sort of elastic, almost malleable quality as it stretched and distorted when one found herself faced with no discernable ways of marking its passage.
Four walls, no windows.
It could be the middle of the night or the middle of the afternoon. She did not know and eventually, she did not care.
He didn't want to hurt her or break her spirit. He had said so early on. She hadn’t believed him. She had been quick to mock him when he declared that he always knew she could love him back if only they could spend time together.
So he had made it happen and now, they had nothing but time together.
He doted on her, always gentle, always caring. He called her solnyshka and looked at her as if she were indeed the sun.
He brought her books, not only to pass the time, he insisted—as if time still held any meaning— but so they could read them together. She had refused at first, just like she had refused the food and the comfortable bed, choosing instead to sit with her back to the corner facing the door. On guard, on edge, prepared to defend herself against an attack that never came.
Time had eroded her resolve as surely as the sea eroded the shore.
It made her soft and tore down her resolve, so she ate his food, she slept beside him and she read the books.
Time proved him right; she could indeed love him back.
Later, he would bring them their meal and she'd finally muster the courage to ask him to make love to her.
Time proved him right; he indeed didn't break her spirit.
Later, after they made love, she would slice his throat with the steak knife he would be too distracted to notice she’d hid beneath the mattress.